


Bridges I Have Burned

by thisonegoes



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sweet Home Alabama Fusion, Engagement, Infidelity, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Recreational Drug Use, no violence but they do shove a few times in anger, recreational weed only
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-10 21:10:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 35,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3303560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisonegoes/pseuds/thisonegoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Sweet Home Alabama AU, where Zayn returns home with a stack of papers for the one man who's haunted him for years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Story

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy this story inspired by the movie Sweet Home Alabama. It's not exactly set there, and I've changed it up of course, but it definitely has pieces from that story. This prompt was amazing and so fun to fulfill!
> 
> :)
> 
> Title from "Fourth of July" by Fall Out Boy.
> 
> Also, thank you to my amazing betas. You are the best.

The ring is too flashy.  
   
It's gold, for one. Zayn's never taken a liking to gold, preferring silver or platinum when it comes to jewelry. The band now sitting in his palm has deep grooved detailing, with black rhodium "for contrast." A row of shimmering diamond accents, set on the diagonal, to add some sparkle. Polished. Brilliant, maybe, with a gorgeous shine to it.  
  
Zayn knows he won't be falling asleep anytime soon, as he lies in their darkened bedroom. So he feels at his new ring, rolls it between his fingers, plays with it to see how he'll like the feel of the metal he'll wear for the rest of his life. It's not that Zayn isn't used to wearing rings. He wears rings all the time, big ones, flashy and gaudy, with skulls, snakes, black stones. It's just that an engagement ring, his wedding ring really, has a permanence to it.  
  
He's not like his work friend Liam, who didn't know what to do with himself when he finally slipped a ring on. It took Liam weeks to get used to wearing a ring at all, let alone a wedding band. Sophia had a fit when he told her he misplaced it. Twice. Liam didn't even tell her about the other two times he lost it, once on a bathroom sink in SoHo, and another on a dirty lycra diner table on 44th and 7th. Luckily he always remembered soon enough, before anyone swiped it. Zayn was with him both of those times, when the realization hit him, the two of them flying down busy New York streets so he could go retrieve it.  
  
No, Zayn won't be like Liam, awkwardly playing with a metal band wrapped around the finger named for this very purpose. His ring finger. For a ring. A wedding ring. For life.  
  
It's Louis's snoring that snaps Zayn out of the reverie he's found himself in. Louis huffs against his bare chest, as they lay in their shitty shared apartment in Greenpoint, Steph and Antonia cuddled up just on the other side of the wall behind their headboard. Louis has a quiet way of snoring, just a small sound at the back of his throat that Zayn's used to. He only does it when he's especially exhausted, or comfortable like he gets when laying on Zayn, or stoned out of his mind and drifting to sleep.  
  
Tonight, it's a mixture of all three.  
  
Even though there wasn't a big proclamation of love, or even a traditional down-on-one-knee proposal, it probably took a lot out of Louis. To lay it out like he did, after their tiring week, after the bowl they smoked in the kitchen. Louis doesn't do sweeping romance. The proposal was totally and completely Louis. The same Louis Zayn met a year before in the basement of a club, in line for the bathroom, all red-rimmed eyes and laughter lines at the ripe old age of 27. Louis-the-actor who took him home and rode him well past sunrise, who told him all about Lee Strasberg and Stanislavski over breakfast, a cigarette and a black cup of coffee shared between them. Louis-the-Broadway-baby who asked Zayn to move in four weeks later, who just last week left Zayn money on this very table to buy flowers for him, for Zayn to give him after his first performance in the play he's now infamous for.  
  
They were shirtless, in nothing but pairs of sweats, kicked back at the rickety kitchen table. The girls left the lights off when they left for the bar they both work at most nights, so the entire apartment had an odd feel to it. Quiet and stagnant. Messy and disorganized, the four of them never quite learning how to pick up after themselves in such a tight space. The stale scent of weed hung in the air, even as they tried to blow it out the busted screen overlooking their relatively quiet block.  
  
"I saw something today," Louis said on an exhale, setting the lighter and pipe down on his thigh, rubbing at the pocket of his black sweatpants.  
  
"Just one something?" Zayn teased, nudged Louis ankle with his big toe.  
  
"Reminded me of you."  
  
"Let me see."  
  
Louis, never one to leave Zayn hanging, did. He just handed it over. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring, the gold and black band with inset diamonds, and placed it in Zayn's palm. At first it looked like any other ring Zayn's worn, a little ostentatious, just odd enough to be part of the collection Zayn's amassed for his fingers. It didn't occur to him that it was anything other than a ring, some cheap thing Louis must've seen in a random shop near the theater. Maybe he found it on the G train on his way home to Zayn, to their little room with peeling plaster and mismatched pillowcases.  
  
But Louis grabbed his hand, the one not holding the ring, and pulled them closer.  
  
"I got my first check," Louis nudged Zayn's cheek with his nose. "I'm officially a paid actor. Tax payer and everything, yeah?"  
  
Zayn just smiled and played with the ring, trying to decide which finger to put it on. Louis grabbed his chin, pulled his face up so they were eye to eye.  
  
"I bought this. For you."  
  
"Thanks, babe," Zayn nodded. "It's great."  
  
"No, it's… I want you to wear it. Because I think we should get married. You and me."  
  
To say Zayn was surprised would be an understatement. Louis had never mentioned it before, the idea of marriage to begin with, let alone with Zayn. It wasn't even something Zayn thought of as a possibility as an adult, to get married and live happily ever after. Not with Louis, not at all.  
  
But Zayn's never been one to leave Louis hanging either, so it was with numb fingers that he nodded. Louis kissed him fiercely, like he was hungry for it, much too fast for as stoned as he was. Zayn kissed him back, felt the ring branding his palm because he hadn't put it on yet, and then they were in their bedroom. Zayn was three fingers deep in Louis before Zayn realized he still hadn't put it on, that he had tossed it to their bedside table as they fell into the room.  
  
It's only now as Zayn plays with it that he realizes how flashy it is. Zayn can do gaudy, on-purpose grunge, carefully placed decoration. Zayn's always been pretty, the kind of man who enjoys dressing himself up in metals and earrings and tattoos. He's branded himself over and over with ink, so a permanent ring should be no different, even if it isn't exactly the kind he would've chosen for himself.  
  
Louis holds him closer, sniffs and buries his face in Zayn's neck. A car alarm goes off somewhere in the distance, a cab honks a horn. Louis sleeps like the dead and doesn't hear any of it. Zayn kisses his temple, already silently apologizing for the train of thought about to come.  
  
Zayn finally slips it on his ring finger, the metal warm to the touch after he's held it for so long. He flexes his hand, wiggles his fingers, feels it out. An engagement ring. A promise.  
  
Louis doesn't know it, and Zayn's not sure when he'll be able to tell him, but Zayn made a promise to someone else a long time ago. A lifetime ago. Zayn's already had a ring, a simple silver band he first wore on this very finger and then on a chain around his neck. He still has it on that chain, in his sock drawer, directly across from their bed. He already had a wedding.  
  
Zayn already has a spouse. A husband.  
  
Harry Styles. The man Zayn ran from, the first man to give Zayn a ring and a whispered _you and me_.  
  
Zayn sighs, angry with himself for letting it go on this long, for the thoughts coursing through his veins, and pulls Louis closer.

  
  
_________

  
Zayn wakes up to the sound of Louis on the phone. Louis has trouble leveling his voice on his best days, so it's not surprising. As Zayn brings his fists to his eyes, to rub the sleep away, he hears Louis's raucous laugh, the sounds of the coffee maker, the fridge opening. Zayn stretches, his hands still on his face, when he remembers the ring. It's there, against his eyelid.  
  
"You're up," Louis says to him, tossing his phone on the bed before crawling up onto it.  
  
"Wonder why," Zayn says with a smile, eyes closed to the sunlight streaming through their cracked blinds.  
  
"Well excuse me, I was just telling our big news to my mom."  
  
"I figured."  
  
"She's so excited. Told the girls while I was on the phone, as well. They can't wait for the wedding."  
  
Zayn rolls onto his stomach and rests his cheek against Louis's bare thigh. He's still getting used to the idea of an engagement ring, of what this means, and Louis already has a wedding on the brain. If Zayn didn't know any better, there's a stranger in their bed. In all the time Zayn has known him, Louis has never paid a bill on time, set his watch correctly, planned ahead further than weekend plans. This is new. Upstanding adult Louis, with a job and a dressing room, is definitely new.  
  
"Yeah, it's gonna be good," Zayn offers, realizing he was silent for too long.  
  
"I think we should do it here. We can get a venue in the city, do it up big."  
  
"Oh, really? With what, lottery money?"  
  
"I have money now," Louis swats at the crown of Zayn's head, his face still buried in the sheets. "Or, well… I will have money. A ton of it, really. The play is doing well and I bet we extend the run. I really think it'll go for awhile."  
  
"It will," Zayn nods into his thigh.  
  
"So then we'll have a wedding. A massive one, with doves and a champagne fountain."  
  
"Okay."  
  
Louis forgets to hear Zayn's tone sometimes, they both know it. Zayn has a tendency to burrow himself so far in his head, he speaks in grunts and one-word sentences. Louis should've heard it, should've grabbed for him. Louis doesn't realize Zayn's mind is elsewhere, that he's already gone.  
  
His first wedding, the one he never talks about, wasn't big. It wasn't even a wedding, not really. Harry and Zayn ran their way through a courthouse, loose ties around their necks, only an hour after graduation. They had second-hand rings in their pockets, a picked flower from Anne's garden in Harry's hair, because he said all weddings need at least one. They signed a piece of paper, kissed in front of an old church lady as their witness, laughed so hard down the elevator, Zayn almost pissed his pants.  
  
"Did you hear me?" Louis pulls him out of it, away from the musky smell of the courthouse, the shake in Harry's hand as he signed his name, the quick tear on Zayn's cheek that he wiped on Harry's shoulder.  
  
"What?" Zayn closes his eyes. "Sorry, what?"  
  
"Do you want to call your mom?" Louis fingers the ring on Zayn's left hand. "I think you should."  
  
Zayn can't see Louis's face, but it's probably content and fond. His eyes always disappear when he looks at Zayn in sweet moments like this, when he breaks into a blinding grin. Or he could be assessing Zayn, calculating, like he gets when Zayn seems too far away.  
  
"I will later."  
  
Zayn turns his face away from Louis's body and looks towards the open window, the crisp April air breezing through. And then Louis leaves, either realizing Zayn's not coming back anytime soon, or about to fall back asleep. Or maybe he doesn't notice anything, and instead goes to tell Steph and Antonia.  
  
Maybe he just wants more coffee. So Zayn blinks a few times and listens to Brooklyn for a while, the sounds she makes when he needs a good think.

  
  
_________

  
The first person Zayn tells about his engagement is his boss. It's not his mom or family, it's not even Liam. It's not Jo at Starbucks, the girl who always makes his coffee on his days off. She makes his drink and even glances at his hand, where the ring now sits. He could tell her. He could throw out the information, because he's used to girls looking at his hand. He can't count the number of times he's been friendly to a woman, and her eyes immediately go to his ring finger, to see if he's taken. They never know him being taken isn't the real hurdle, and instead his penchant for cock. But maybe Jo just thinks it's another weird ring of his, so he grabs the coffee with his left hand and leaves to go for a walk before he can open his mouth.  
  
It's Vince Bagley, managing editor of Rustle Magazine, who gets the news before anyone else, when Zayn sits down with his coffee on a bench in McGolrick Park.  
  
"Holy shit," he says, with a cough and a laugh both mixed in for good measure.  
  
"Yeah, so."  
  
"I mean, good for you, man. Lou seems like a fun guy."  
  
"Yeah, he is."  
  
Zayn feels himself playing with his ring again, as Vince shuffles papers on the other end of the phone. Even on Saturdays, Vince can be found in the office or on his couch at home, reading pieces, going over spreadsheets, deciding which of Zayn's stupid drawings will be used in the entertainment/pop culture magazine. Zayn started as a simple illustrator, drawing political cartoons and creating byline bugs from scratch. But lately Vince has asked Zayn to make full spread info graphics, charts and digital content for the web version. The magazine has some traction in New York, has for years as a print version, but now it's spreading across the country. Vince says they have a ways to go, but there are more investors than ever, betting on the product.  
  
Zayn thinks if he waits just a little bit longer, he can ask Vince for a weekly cartoon all his own, something readers can look forward to, something Zayn can truly call his.  
  
Vince drops his phone and curses. Zayn can't help but laugh as he takes a sip of hot coffee.  
  
"But I sort of have a favor," Zayn exhales, nervous. "I swear I'd never ask for time off…"  
  
"How long do you need?"  
  
"Maybe a week or two? Away from the office? I swear I'll send in my work, I'll DropBox everything to you before deadlines. I just have… some shit I need to take care of. Sooner rather than later."  
  
"Wedding shit, I presume."  
  
"Sort of," Zayn crosses his fingers at the fib, something Harry taught him when they were kids.  
  
"S'all good, Zayn. Don't you worry, my friend."  
  
"Thanks Vince, I really appreciate it."  
  
"Of course. And congratulations, again. I'm happy for you."  
  
A cloud shifts overhead and as Zayn walks home, suddenly the grey New York skyline across the river, the grey sidewalk, the grey sweater Zayn's wearing, all seamlessly blend together. It's an oddly depressing thought, so Zayn shakes his head.  
  
"Thank you," he finishes, before hanging up.  
  
Zayn is engaged and now it's a little more real, now that someone knows besides the people he lives with. Besides him and Louis. The ring on his finger feels a little heavier than before, which Zayn only notices because as he tosses his empty cup into a trashcan, he swears it tightens around his finger.

  
  
_________

  
Louis leaves in a tornado that afternoon, with his bag, scarf, extra jeans, and Zayn's newest issue over his shoulders and in his hands. Right before he shuts the door behind himself, yelling out about that night's performance and the critic coming, Louis must remember. Zayn, at the kitchen table with his laptop, feels his face get pulled up into a kiss. Louis bites his lip a little, playful and menacing all at once, and then he's gone with a swift _bye, fiancé_.  
  
Zayn's not exactly prepared for what he's about to do, so he quickly and efficiently lights a joint. The kitchen window near him is open so he pretends like it matters, exhales towards it, and leans closer to his laptop.  
  
Once the high hits and his major muscle groups relax, he pulls up Antonia's Facebook. She knew well enough not to ask questions, when he asked earlier if she would log into her account so he could search for someone, not having one of his own. That was something he and Louis connected over, their aversion to all aspects of intrusive social media. Zayn prefers not to have his face floating around anywhere, if he can help it, and was the only person on his dorm floor freshman year not to have an account.  
  
Zayn couldn't stand the thought of asking his mom or sisters about Harry, if they knew where he was, if he's across the world or in Los Angeles like he was a few years ago. That's the last Zayn heard of him, when his dad casually mentioned over the phone two Thanksgivings back, that Harry Styles moved from Miami to Los Angeles, on another adventure, after living in Vegas, Denver, and Phoenix first.  
  
Zayn takes a breath. In the search bar, he types HARRY STYLES and waits for their shitty Wi-Fi to load the page, his fingers thumping against the wooden table. Sometimes when he gets high, he mellows so much, he can hardly move and falls asleep. Other times, he feels every nerve ending from tip to toe, like now. He can't sit still.  
  
It eventually loads, after a millennium, and then there he is. Harry. His smiling face staring at Zayn through the screen, all bright eyes and shaggy hair, new tattoos Zayn doesn't know the meaning of. But it's his location that about makes Zayn fall off his chair.  
  
Zayn fumbles for his phone, steam coming out of his ears.  
  
"Hey," Doniya yawns into the phone as she answers.  
  
"What the fuck?" Zayn hisses.  
  
"Whoa, what?"  
  
"No one told me Harry was back home."  
  
"Was that something I was supposed to tell you?"  
  
"Are you _kidding_ me?"  
  
"I thought He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was a cursed word in this family. It didn't seem like something you'd want to hear."  
  
Zayn smacks himself in the forehead with his left hand, his ring hitting his brow bone quite painfully. His older sister is absolutely right, unfortunately. If someone in his family had called to say that Harry was living back in Hammond, there's the very real possibility that Zayn wouldn't currently be speaking to any of them.  
  
But now it creates a whole new mess of problems, because finding Harry was supposed to take him somewhere random, some city he could quickly jet to, where he would settle this once and for all. Now it means going home, to the place where it started, where they became the two stupid kids who thought getting married at 18 was okay.  
  
"Shit," Zayn lays his head on the table.  
  
"Look, I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd want to know. He's been back for almost a year now. He's living in his mom's old house."  
  
"Shit," he repeats, for lack of any thought beyond that.  
  
"He looks good?" Doniya tosses out with a smile, a smile Zayn can hear even across the miles between them.  
  
Zayn doesn't respond to that, because he knows that already. Harry's Facebook gave it away, his grown-out hair like he always wanted, the broad shoulders, the cherry red lips Zayn used to suck on for hours. He can even see the dot on Harry's left ear, from when they got drunk in tenth grade and tried to pierce it to match Zayn's. It was only a few weeks before their "second first kiss," when they tangled up in Zayn's bed and discovered each other again. Their actual first kiss was when they were ten, next to the lake behind Harry's house, on a dare from Gemma and Doniya, the jerks.  
  
Zayn almost tells Doniya it's all their fault.  
  
"I'm coming home this week," he groans instead, speaking into the table and phone equally.  
  
"To see him?"  
  
"Oh please, give me some credit. I'm coming home to see my family."  
  
"And him."  
  
"Why did I even call you? Leave me alone."  
  
Zayn hangs up before she can say any other harsh truths he'd rather not hear, or before he spits out the fact that he's engaged. Again. Doniya was the first person he told when he showed up back at the house, with a ring on his finger and Harry hanging on his arm, that day in June.  
  
They were so young when they got married. Seemingly out of nowhere, it was high school graduation, everyone was talking about leaving for college, and suddenly they were faced with about five huge life changes all at once. Zayn doesn't do well with change, and he didn't realize Harry didn't either, until he had the last nine years to reflect on their rash decision. They were in love of course, but they were also best friends, confidants, partners. Even when they'd kick and scream, fighting like cats and dogs, Harry liked to say they were a team, a pair, a host and a germ, a whale and a barnacle. Every analogy Harry ever thought up for them sounded worse and more stupid than the last, and yet Zayn almost tattooed GERM on his arm that last summer, to make Harry laugh.  
  
They were young and dumb, believed "true love" meant everything, that nothing could touch them if they were bound together.  
  
They were stupid.

  
  
_________

  
  
Three days later, as Zayn waits for his car to the airport, he sits on the couch and watches Steph make cupcakes. He realizes that he won't have this much longer, a quiet afternoon of watching. Louis officially warned the girls over breakfast that they'll move out soon, now that he and Zayn both make more money and are engaged. They need their own space, something bigger and nicer, someplace not in Brooklyn. Someplace new.  
  
Zayn tries to appreciate it now. He smoked a bowl about an hour before, so it's just the last lingering effects of the weed, that causes him to sit immobile, staring at Steph like she's a conductor in a symphony. It's like her hands move of their own accord, as she measures and divides ingredients. The bowls and pans sit on every surface in their small kitchen, across the table and counters, even up on top of the fridge, as she works around it.  
  
Steph and Antonia work in a bar, but they also sell cupcakes and desserts on the side. They want their own bakery someday, so Zayn tries his best to offer advice and taste test every new flavor. Today it's some carrot cake concoction, with a fancy spiced frosting Zayn doesn't love, but could probably get used to. Steph stuck her finger in his mouth, twirled the frosting around his tongue, before quirking her eyebrows to gauge his reaction. She knows him and read his face to mean it needed a tweak, so off she went, to measure more ingredients and hum to a Coldplay playlist.  
  
Zayn scratches at his temple, runs his fingers down his side burn where it's freshly shaven, and watches the long slope of Steph's thighs as she bends over the stove. She always bakes in just her bra and running shorts, toned muscles and hard stomach on full display. Unlike Louis, who is as gay as the day is long, Zayn can appreciate women. He likes the softness and tender touches only women seem to have.  
  
The first girl Zayn ever kissed was because Harry told him to. And the first girl he ever slept with was with Harry, together. They did it in a tent senior year, with Kim MacLeod, with her honey skin and dark hair, fingers around both of them. Maybe Steph reminds him of Kim, now that he thinks about it.  
  
Eventually Antonia comes out of their bedroom and kisses Steph's shoulder, leaning over to get a look at the cupcake mixture. Zayn watches that as well, the way they can be tender and sweet, over something they both truly have a passion for.  
  
"Alright babe," Antonia pulls him out of it, by physically pulling him up from the couch. "Your car is here. Have fun at home."  
  
"Louis…" Zayn trails off, realizing Louis didn't make it back to say goodbye.  
  
"I'll tell him you love him, and make him grovel for your forgiveness, for missing you."  
  
"Yeah, alright."  
  
Zayn shakes his head to focus and kisses them both goodbye. He hasn’t even moved out yet and he already misses them, these crazy girls who remind him of his sisters, who let him laugh into their necks and tease him when he’s drunk. Antonia smacks his ass as he picks up his bag and Steph tries to swat at his dick, so maybe they’re not very sisterly, and maybe Zayn loves that about them.  
  
He trudges out the front door with a huge smile on his face. It's as he's pulling his suitcase and backpack down their walk-up steps, when Louis comes rushing towards him. He yells about the train being a pain in the ass, the bodega being out of the baking shit Steph asked for, a cramp in his leg.  
  
Zayn can't help but smile, at Louis running to see him off. Louis hates running on principle, and Zayn even distinctly remembers Louis giving him that speech once, _I'll never chase after you, Zayn, so please don't make me._  
  
"I'm gonna miss you," Zayn pulls Louis against his chest, speaking into his ear, hair tickling his nose.  
  
"Miss you already," Louis exhales, gripping Zayn's hips.  
  
"I'll tell my family first thing and then we'll FaceTime you, yeah?"  
  
"You better."  
  
Zayn steps back and signals to the driver that he's ready, palming his pocket for his phone and wallet. The ride to JFK won't be pleasant, but maybe he can take a nap. He also pats at his backpack, to make sure he didn't forget the file folder with the paperwork facilitating this entire trip.  
  
Louis pulls him out of his thoughts, with both palms on his cheeks, to get Zayn to look up and meet his eyes.  
  
"I'm happy. Are you happy?"  
  
"Of course I am," Zayn tries to smile.  
  
"Then why are you leaving?"  
  
"I… it's just a quick trip, to see my family. I haven't been home in years."  
  
"Why aren't I going with you?"  
  
Zayn rolls his eyes and tries to step away, to push Louis back towards the stairs. He needs to go, he can't be late.  
  
"You have the show and you can't leave."  
  
"I could've come with you for a few days at least, over the weekend."  
  
"But you wouldn't have," Zayn shrugs and opens the door to the car, the nice one Louis ordered for him because he can do things like that now, splurge on cars.  
  
"I would've come with," Louis puts his hands on his hips, like he does when he feels affronted.  
  
"Liar."  
  
"Well I would've thought about it. I would've considered it. You're my fiancé now, I'm supposed to _try_ and think about these things, right?"  
  
"Goodbye Lou," Zayn kisses him hard. "I'll call you."  
  
"The second you land."  
  
"I will."  
  
"I'm serious, Zayn. Don't piss me off when you're a million miles away, that's not fair."  
  
Louis kisses Zayn harder, like he's won, and nudges Zayn towards the car.  
  
Zayn gives a quick wave out the back window as the driver pulls away from the curb, but Louis doesn't see. He's already on his phone. Zayn wishes he were more annoyed by that, but he finds that he's not. There's something about Louis, about New York in general, that makes him even more subdued than ever.  
  
He rests his head against the seat and thinks, really wracks his brain, to see when he became so different. He used to be sillier, much more of a dork, weird and a little nonsensical. It's what made him want to do what he does at the magazine, the part of his brain that made him a little off beat and creative. It's something he liked about himself, when he could be loud and joke around. And maybe it's childish, to miss the parts of himself that were essentially from his childhood, but still. He didn't have fear when he was younger. He could walk out his front door and know every face staring back at him. There was never any worry when it came to Hammond, if he made a fool of himself or said something stupid around a group of people. They knew him, they understood him, they all came from the same place. New York Zayn Malik is cooler, edgier, the type of guy Louis Tomlinson would go for.  
  
Zayn also used to be more forceful and sure of himself, someone who could break up a fight, or start one, if he needed to. He could scream and yell, until he was red in the face, when something really riled him up. If anyone pulled some of the shit Louis just pulled, making him feel bad for going home, the younger version of Zayn would've given it right back. He would've told Louis to fuck off, that he didn't ask because he didn't want to hear the definite NO Louis would've thrown him. But New York Zayn Malik is quiet, complacent, a doormat, the type of guy Louis Tomlinson definitely goes for.  
  
Zayn closes his eyes and tries to rest.

  
  
_________

  
Hammond, Virginia, the semi-coastal town Zayn grew up in just southeast of Richmond, looks the same as ever, if maybe just a little smaller. With no large buildings in the way, it's like the clear blue sky goes for miles, just up up up. Zayn's not used to it anymore, how open and bright it is. The drive through downtown, the one main street it consists of lined with trees just back in bloom, is a pleasant one. Zayn took a cab, choosing not to be bombarded with too much family too soon. He wants to see Hammond, immerse himself in the town first. It's all so fresh and green, everything shining, not a piece of graffiti in sight.  
  
Louis knew the second Zayn called him that he had waited until he was off the plane, and not when he landed as promised. Louis told him, in so few words, to enjoy his time away, and Zayn vows then to follow that passive-aggressive advice, at least for the afternoon.  
  
Zayn can't help but smile as he passes familiar faces, storefronts he used to bike by on his way to school, the record store he bought his first CDs from. The bar he snuck into at sixteen and passed out in. The Italian restaurant Harry worked at in high school, the one owned by August Kenny's family, where Zayn used to snag free breadsticks every other day.  
  
Then they pass the courthouse, the building with the huge stone staircase they ran up, when they got married. June 12th. It reminds Zayn, that courthouse, to swap the ring from his left hand to his right. For now. It's like suddenly now that he's back here, the thought of talking about it, before talking to Harry first, feels like some weird sort of betrayal.  
  
The next few hours are a blur. Zayn steps out of the cab and is practically thrown to the ground by Malik women. They pinch his face, kiss him over and over, comment on how thin he is. His dad hugs him for a good five minutes straight, speaks directly against the side of his head, and Zayn feels terrible for leaving him alone for so long. After a rough breakup of her own, Doniya moved back into the house. Waliyha’s almost finished with community college in town, Safaa’s graduating high school in a few months, so it's just him and a house full of women. Zayn promises he'll visit more often, can already hear the twang infiltrating his voice, much to his dismay. Yaser must hear it and winks at him as they head into the house.  
  
Zayn texts Louis and says he can't FaceTime until the next day, that they're all too excited to see him to sit still and hear his news. Louis ignores the text entirely and Zayn pretends not to notice.  
  
He spends that night with his family, tells them about his "cool" apartment in the city, how he has loads of friends, and Louis. They've never met Louis and have only seen pictures, but they nod in all the right places as Zayn explains the plot of his new play. As they drink wine in the living room with their parents, Doniya pulls up the reviews on her iPad and reads a few lines, with her eyebrows nearly to her hairline, at all the rave reviews Louis has gotten.  
  
"Sounds like he's gonna be a big deal soon," she stares Zayn down. "You plan on keeping him around?"  
  
"Yes," he stares back.  
  
"You should probably let your husband know, then."  
  
Zayn almost smacks her.  
  
No one else seems to hear their conversation, the girls having gone to bed already and their parents curled up together whispering and laughing like teenagers. Zayn's pretty sure that Doniya didn't tell anyone about Zayn's phone call asking about Harry. For all he knows, before he arrived, maybe Harry as a topic of discussion was deemed a definite no-no.  
  
She quirks an eyebrow at him and he turns away.

  
  
_________

  
Zayn smooths the black t-shirt now too tight around his neck and grips the manila envelope in his right hand, his ring digging into it and crinkling it slightly, as he heads to Anne's old house, the one his mom told him ages ago was about to be on the market. It's apparently Harry's now, she never sold it after all, and it's just across town. Zayn tells himself to enjoy the path he so often took as a kid. He had a skateboarding phase, right before high school, so he'd usually turn up on Harry's front porch with skinned knees and bloody knuckles. Then he had his bike, which got him there fast as the wind, and then the car he saved up for when he turned sixteen. Harry used to run and jump off the edge of the porch, towards the end, when Zayn would pull into the gravel driveway.  
  
Harry got so tall, towards the end. He sprouted like a weed, almost too fast for his frame to handle, which caused him to hunch slightly. Zayn used to stretch up onto his toes, to reach Harry's face before Harry would curl down to meet him. Zayn would hold him by the ears and lick into his mouth, as teenagers and then as married men.  
  
Zayn shakes his head. It's time to buck up, to be the Hammond Zayn Malik who could go toe-to-toe with Harry Styles. He quickly transfers the ring back from his right hand to his left, shoves it harshly onto his ring finger, where it'll sit from now on.  
  
The walk up the drive way is a fast one, now that Zayn wants to get this over with. The lake sparkles behind the quaint white house, picturesque as always, but even that looks smaller now that Zayn's older. He can hear twangy music blasting from somewhere inside. The white picket fence surrounding the lake house has a slight peel to it, but otherwise 616 Honeywell looks exactly the same.  
  
Zayn announces himself like he used to, not with a knock or a text, but with his full voice, as he walks around the yard.  
  
"Harry Styles," he hollers, hoping it reaches through each open window, all those old white curtains flapping in the wind.  
  
The music continues to blare, but then he hears the telltale bark of Bruce, as he bounds at Zayn off the porch.  
  
"Bruce!" Zayn laughs, as the old yellow lab jumps up to his chest, licking his face with a slight whine. He's older, a little heavier, but the same Bruce with his goofy tongue slobbering on Zayn's jeans. "How are you, buddy? How's this good dog? Good dog," Zayn whispers, rubbing his ears, moving to his knees.  
  
Bruce jumps at his face, runs around him in a circle, and Zayn can't remember the last time he saw Bruce up close. The last time he saw Harry is burned in his brain, but Bruce must've been inside the house then.  
  
"Bruce!" comes a voice from inside. "Sit!"  
  
Zayn shoves at Bruce's face and looks up, right as Harry smacks at the screen door and steps out on the porch. Their eyes lock and Harry stops mid chew, the apple held up to his face now down at his side, dumbfounded. Zayn pats Bruce's head a final time and gets up from the dirt path, swiping at his knees.  
  
But just as fast as Harry's face fell into a frown, it now curls into a grin.  
  
"Well look what the cat dragged in," Harry drawls, leaning against the white porch pillar, taking another bite of apple. His barely buttoned plaid shirt blows around him, his tight jeans hugging him in all the right places, which Zayn _hates_ to have noticed. Harry continues to grin as he chops harshly like cattle. "Haven't seen you in… a while."  
  
"Harry," Zayn nods politely.  
  
"Zaaayn," Harry dips into an exaggerated bow, before smiling again.  
  
Zayn frowns at the gesture. He used to call Harry a Cheshire Cat, the way he could look through someone, that smile too toothy and manipulating and deadly.  
  
Zayn shakes his head, to ignore it. He holds up the envelope, eyes screwed up slightly from the hot sun.  
  
"Can I help you?" Harry smiles, ignoring Zayn right back.  
  
"Well, for starters, you can get your stubborn ass down here and give me a divorce."  
  
Harry's eyes bore into Zayn even fiercer then, much to Zayn's surprise. He tosses the apple core towards his mom's rose bushes and whistles for Bruce, who reluctantly pads his way up the three wooden steps, to sit at Harry's feet. Zayn can feel it happening already, the stance he gets when he's near Harry. Suddenly he's taller, broader, Hammond Zayn with that not-quite-but-just-about-Southern twang to his voice, the tilt the Yankees used to make fun of in college up north. He doesn't even know when it happened, but he's leaning on one foot and has a hand on his hip, annoyed as hell.  
  
"So I'm supposed to sign something?" Harry mirrors Zayn, hand on his own hip.  
  
"Don't do this. I've sent these to you before, twice, and they always come back to sender. Yes, you need to sign them. And I'm here to make sure you finally fucking do it."  
  
"You sent them? And where to, exactly?"  
  
Zayn stares Harry down. He had a lawyer find Harry's address a few times over the years, too proud to ask anyone from Hammond where Harry was exactly. He knows the papers were sent to him, while he lived in both Miami and Denver. They always came back to Zayn, the envelope opened and resealed, the pages haphazardly flipped through, but returned unsigned. Zayn could practically hear the laugh from Harry, even years later, every time he threw the blank annotated pages to the floor in frustration.  
  
Zayn doesn't say anything and instead reaches into his back pocket. He holds up the pen and envelope in each hand, with raised eyebrows. Ready to get it over with.  
  
Harry starts to smile again, when his eye catches the ring on Zayn's left hand and instead falters, slightly. Zayn feels the rush to his cheeks, so he squints further and pretends it's the sun.  
  
"Well look at you," Harry throws his arms out, stepping off the porch. "Mr. Malik is engaged?"  
  
Harry walks with his dick first like always, that stupid swagger Zayn wants to box up and shove in a closet, like every other memory he has of Harry. He gets closer and closer to Zayn, slowly, still smiling. Zayn refuses to back away.  
  
"Can you just sign these? Please?"  
  
"I don't think so," Harry tuts, mock disappointment laced in every word.  
  
"Harry."  
  
"I can hardly sign anything I haven't read. And I should probably have a lawyer look them over," Harry snatches the envelope away, viciously. "I'm just a simple country boy. There's probably all kinds of big words in here I can't pronounce."  
  
"Oh please," Zayn finally steps back, a little. "We had zero shared assets, we didn't purchase anything, or in any way act like a married couple. Just fucking sign, Harry."  
  
But Harry tuts further and heads back towards the porch.  
  
"Come back tomorrow," Harry opens the screen door and looks at Zayn over his shoulder. "Maybe I'll sign then."  
  
"Harry," Zayn grits his teeth. "Please?"  
  
"Show me you can actually follow through with something, for once. Come back tomorrow, and maybe I'll sign."  
  
Zayn can feel his temper rising, that old part of himself surging through, the part of himself Harry always brought out with a vengeance. He's still holding the fountain pen from his dad's office and he almost snaps it clean in half.  
  
"I'm sure your one-and-only can wait an extra day for the paperwork," Harry finishes, before whistling for Bruce to follow him in the house.  
  
Zayn's left with a slammed door and that stupid music, which Harry turns up even louder, ringing in his ears.

  
  
_________

  
Louis answers the phone after four rings, because he's an annoying little shit who knows how to get Zayn exactly where he wants him.  
  
"Hello fiancé," he slurs over the sounds of a bar at sunset that make it hard for Zayn to hear.  
  
"Miss you," Zayn says first thing, so Louis can't say he didn't.  
  
"Do you miss me so much? I miss you."  
  
"I do."  
  
"We're gonna say that soon, babe. Did you hear yourself? That's what we'll say, right?"  
  
"That's right," Zayn closes his eyes, cramped up in his childhood bedroom, the one his mom attempted to turn into a gym. It's just more cluttered than anything else, with a treadmill covered in clothes in the corner, Zayn's old artwork still tacked up where he left it.  
  
"Did you tell your family? Are they so excited to come to the city?"  
  
"I did," Zayn lies, suddenly very aware that he's never done that before, not with Louis, except for the huge lie by omission, about Harry. Zayn's not even sure why he hasn't told anyone about the engagement. At first he thought he wanted Harry to know before anyone else, and now he does. But when Zayn got back from Harry's house earlier, he came right up to his room and collapsed on his bed to sleep for four hours.  
  
"I want to talk to your parents," Louis whines. "I didn't even ask permission for your hand."  
  
Zayn snorts at that and ignores him.  
  
"I'll call you tomorrow, babe. M'tired," Zayn lies again.  
  
"The girls say hi," Louis giggles. Zayn can practically see Antonia hanging on his back, Steph kissing his neck. Zayn wishes he were there with them, laughing into his beer, singing along to "Sweet Caroline" in Louis's favorite bar.  
  
Zayn almost smacks himself across the face, for being such an asshole. He misses Louis, his Louis, the person who understands the person he is now. He misses his apartment and his city, the shitty G train, the doodles he left in his sketchbook at his desk. He misses their bed, Louis's small hands, the way he tucks his sweatpants into his socks.  
  
"Tell them I say hi, babe. I'll call you."  
  
"I love you," Louis screams with a laugh, hanging up before Zayn can say anything else.  
  
Zayn sighs and tosses his phone somewhere into the sheets, ashamed. He lied on the phone to Louis, he's lying to his family, he's lied to Louis since the day they met. He wasn't technically single then, and he's not single now, not legally.  
  
He turns over and chases sleep again, even though it's about time for dinner. He can hear his mom banging around in the kitchen, with his dad watching the nightly news in the living room.  
  
He closes his eyes and vows to get Harry's signature first thing in the morning.

  
  
_________

  
_Zayn's glad he left his diploma with his mom, as Harry shoves him up the stairs of his rickety old house. He's pretty sure it'd be ripped to shreds, or at least crumpled beyond recognition, when Harry shoves his tongue in his mouth and grabs his hands._  
  
_They stumble up the last few stairs, connected at the mouth, and Harry's door frame feels especially harsh against Zayn's back, when he gets slammed into it._  
  
_Harry's mouth is everywhere, his tongue insistent and searching, along his jaw, up his neck, at his earlobe. Zayn groans when Harry bites down, the tip of his tongue circling his earring. Zayn palms at Harry's good slacks, the ones that cover Harry's deliciously lean legs, the zipper caught. Harry laughs when Zayn's frustrated sounds get louder, the longer it takes his fumbling fingers to undo them._  
  
_"Fuckin," Zayn whispers, "Jesus Christ, this zipper is impossible."_  
  
_Finally he gets it and shoves them and Harry's boxers to his knees, right as Harry giggles again and tugs at his tie._  
  
_"Can't wait to fuck you," Harry bites his lip with a smile, shoving him on the bed._  
  
_"Hurry," Zayn smiles back, tossing his tie to the floor._  
  
_They don't have long. They left their families at the graduation ceremony, their mothers huddled together sharing tissues, their dads pretending to talk about basketball so they won't get emotional. They're supposed to be "hanging out with classmates" for an hour, before going to Zayn's house for a combined party between all of them._  
  
_It's been a wild ride, the story of Zayn and Harry, from when they met in fourth grade, up until now. And maybe it hits them at the same time, as Harry tosses his tie and dress shirt to join Zayn's on his bedroom floor, among their old notebooks and paper airplanes, next to the comics and DVDs Zayn insists are good. Zayn can't help but sigh when Harry finally crawls up his body, to kiss him again, deep and rough._  
  
_Zayn palms at Harry's bare ass, the delicate skin he's seen in locker rooms and backseats, the place only Zayn has ever seen like this. They've been together since they were sixteen, when one day they were in Zayn's bed talking and realized that most boys don't cuddle like they do, don't look out for each other the way they have, don't ache when far apart. They've been kissing and tasting and fucking almost every day since, and sometimes it still doesn't feel like enough. Sometimes Zayn imagines himself physically burrowing inside Harry, up under his diaphragm like a germ. Like a barnacle._  
  
_Harry kisses down Zayn's neck, his chest, over his belly. He sucks Zayn down to the hilt, nose bumping against his body, and Zayn's toes curl. He wishes Harry's hair was longer so he could really thread his fingers through it, like they did a few months ago with Kim, when she said she liked having her braids pulled. Harry laughs then, with a mouthful of dick, so maybe he remembers it too._  
  
_They don't speak until Harry's inside him, with Zayn's ankles locked around Harry's waist, dripping with lube. It's not until Zayn has to bite Harry's shoulder, the baby fat he has along his belly knocking against Zayn, that he tries to speak._  
  
_"I love you so much," Zayn exhales, words punched out of him in a steady rhythm._  
  
_"Love you," Harry grunts, his balls slapping against Zayn's skin the faster he goes._  
  
_"Good."_  
  
_Zayn comes first, his fist tight and perfect as he pulls himself off. He loves to come first, to relish in the frenzy Harry works himself up into, when he knows he needs to fuck into Zayn before Zayn can't handle it. Harry sits up fully on his haunches and grabs Zayn's thighs, pulls him apart, to watch where their bodies meet. It's a beautiful sight, Zayn knows, so he grabs his knees and bears down._  
  
_"Fuck," Harry whines, face a mess of sweat._  
  
_"Y'gonna fuck me for the rest of our lives, aren't you," Zayn helps him out, the jizz on his stomach starting to get tacky._  
  
_"M'gonna fuck you," Harry grunts, voice almost robotic, so sure of himself. "M'gonna fuck you."_  
  
_"C'mon. C'mon, babe," Zayn hisses, clenching around him._  
  
_"We should get married," Harry finally looks up at him, his eyes black and wild._  
  
_"Okay."_  
  
_"Okay."_  
  
_Harry slams into Zayn one last time, before he pulls out and leans down on one arm. He fists himself, Zayn's hands in his hair, soothing him, running his foot along his thigh. Harry comes quietly across Zayn's stomach, so quiet Zayn can hear the sprinklers outside, Bruce's barking on the porch. Harry collapses next to Zayn, his mouth against Zayn's arm, exhausted._  
  
_Zayn smiles and pulls him close, up under his arm instead, and kisses his forehead._  
  
_"That was amazing," Zayn closes his eyes, letting himself enjoy the post-sex haze before they have to get dressed again._  
  
_"Fuck," Harry nods, agreeing._  
  
_They doze for a few minutes, as their breathing comes down, Harry's lips pressing against Zayn's chest every few seconds. Zayn tries to imagine their dorm rooms in the fall, at the university they both agreed to attend in Wilmington. It wasn't even a question that they'd go to school together. Zayn tries to quiet the voice in his head that wonders about NYU, his dream school that he never in a million years thought he'd get accepted to. He was wait-listed, which was reason enough to never tell Harry about his application. It didn't matter anymore, nothing mattered but this. Them._  
  
_"I was serious," Harry sits up then, wiping the sweat from his upper lip. "About getting married."_  
  
_Zayn smiles and ruffles his hair._  
  
_"I know you were. And we will someday."_  
  
_"Why not today?"_  
  
_"Are you high?" Zayn tries to laugh Harry off. He has to do that whenever Harry has a stupid idea._  
  
_"No," Harry sits up fully, throwing a leg over Zayn's lap to settle in. "Let's do it. We're adults, we can do whatever we want. We're free, Zayn. You and me, yeah? Let's go get married."_  
  
_"Right now?"_  
  
_"Why not? If we're going to do it eventually, let's do it now!"_  
  
_Zayn grabs Harry's hips and flips them over so he can get a good look at Harry's stupidly endearing face._  
  
_"Now?" Zayn tastes the word on his tongue, considering it._  
  
_"C'mon, Zayn," Harry grins, that Cheshire Cat one he rarely uses on Zayn because it never works. He does that thing with his face, the sweet expression that drips right into sensual, and grabs at his own hair. Bites his lip, rolls his hips, the bastard. "Don't you wanna wife me up?"_  
  
_Zayn laughs right into Harry's mouth and kisses him, holds him close. Before he knows it, Zayn is nodding. It's the dumbest idea Harry's ever come up with, and he's come up with some doozies. Zayn has a tattoo on his ass to prove it. But sometimes Harry's most ridiculous ideas are his absolute best. So when they run up the courthouse stairs half an hour later, shouting a belated s_ orry for being late, see you soon _over the phone to their mothers, Zayn laughs the whole time._

  
  
_________

  
Zayn almost breaks a knuckle, he knocks on Harry's front door so forcefully the next morning. At first Bruce's booming bark sounds miles away inside, but then he's scratching at the wood on the other side. Maybe he knows it's Zayn.  
  
"Harry Styles," Zayn yells as loud as he can, like he used to when he was ten and asking if Harry could come out to play.  
  
The door opens a crack, a large green eye peeking at him through the gap, and then Harry throws it open. Bruce tries to jump at Zayn, but Harry pushes him back. The white curtain covering the glass hits Harry in the face, which he then rubs at with hung over limbs. He's shirtless, in just black jeans completely undone and hanging open, his red boxers on full display. He looks like a corpse come back to life.  
  
"Do you have any idea how fucking early it is?" Harry croaks.  
  
Zayn ignores him and strolls into the living room, decorated exactly the same as it was nine years before. Zayn knew Anne got sick a few years back and ended up moving in with Gemma up in Richmond. Zayn assumed someone else lived in the house between the time Harry moved back in, but apparently not. It's the same couch, the old baby blue one with white flowers on it, the rocking chair near the front window, the same school pictures on the mantle. Zayn knows he's no longer there smiling from any frames, even though he was in over half of them by the time they turned 18.  
  
"Do you have something for me?" Zayn turns in a circle, hands on his hips.  
  
"I have coffee. That's about all I can do right now," Harry presses at his eyeballs with the heels of his hands and exhales.  
  
Harry shuffles towards the back kitchen, to the old white stove to make coffee. Zayn forgot Harry liked his coffee made on the stove, like an old lady, with his grandma's old rusted coffee pot and everything. Zayn rolls his eyes and follows after him, choosing to ignore the stale scent of whiskey wafting from Harry's unshowered frame.  
  
"Can you please just sign the papers? I'll leave right now, I swear. Just sign them."  
  
Harry ignores him and busies himself with putting the water on the stove. Zayn has to look away when he catches Harry scratching at his side, the tick he's always had when he first wakes up. As he stares out the window over the sink, he can't see Harry's face anymore, but he'd bet his life on it: Harry, one eye still closed, nails along his hip, up his ribs, reawakening.  
  
"I'm not signing shit until I read them over, I already told you," Harry says with a yawn.  
  
"This is such bullshit. I've sent you this shit before, you've had forever to read them over! Fuck," Zayn leans against the counter.  
  
"I'll read them, Jesus Christ."  
  
"Uh, yeah. You will. Because I'm not leaving until I have them signed."  
  
"Took you long enough," Harry chuckles, adding scoops of coffee to the coffee holder above the base.  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
Harry throws the spoon towards the sink with a loud clatter, too harsh for the early hour. Zayn feels his heart rate spike at the noise, a little worried for what he's about to hear. Harry turns to him and crosses his arms, his face puffy and red, but set.  
  
"You were my best fucking friend," Harry says, voice steady and unwavering. "We were married, Zayn. We got _married_. We did it, for real, even if you pretended like we didn't. And you thought I'd what, sign that shit when you didn't even have the decency to ask me for a divorce to my face?"  
  
Zayn grips the counter so hard, he feels the wood splintering under his fingernails.  
  
"Every envelope I ever got in the mail, with your fucking name as the return address, I should've burned."  
  
"Harry."  
  
"So yes, Zayn. It took you long enough, to face me like a fucking man," Harry says with a smile and a shoulder shrug, like maybe he's just told a really good joke and is waiting for a laugh.  
  
Zayn can't think of anything to say, doesn't know how to speak suddenly, as Harry turns back to his rickety stove to wait for his morning brew.  
  
"I'd offer you some coffee when it's ready, but I'd rather you not stay long. I have a load of paperwork to read, after all. You know, all that legal jargon about the dissolution of our marriage," Harry scratches at his side again, his calculating eyes landing on Zayn once again when he turns.  
  
"You told me to come here today."  
  
"And I'm as surprised as anyone that you actually showed up. But you've proved yourself, so you can leave now."  
  
"You're a fucking asshole," Zayn shoves away from the counter, heading back to the front door, fed up. He'll have to come back to get the papers soon enough and he doesn't want to look at Harry any longer, not now.  
  
Harry won't let him have a swift exit though, and stomps behind him.  
  
"Hey babe, we were partners, remember?" Harry spits. "To have and to hold! 'Til death! If I'm an asshole, it means we both are."  
  
Zayn slams the door and leaps from the porch as fast as he can. He spends the rest of the day wandering around his hometown, resolutely not thinking about Harry Styles.

  
_________

  
"Attention Malik family!" Zayn yells as he walks through his own front door. "Gather 'round!"  
  
His mom's bewildered face appears from inside the kitchen, staring at him like he's lost his marbles. His dad runs up the basement stairs, clearly thinking someone's hurt or dead.  
  
Zayn just holds up a finger and yells up the staircase for his sisters, who all filter down at their leisure. He clicks his tongue, impatient, and shakes his head, smoothing his hair. He probably looks flushed, a complete mess, unsteady on his feet.  
  
"What's wrong?" his mom asks, stepping towards him.  
  
Doniya clears her throat, pissed, because she must sense what's coming.  
  
"I wanted you all to know something. I should've told you when I arrived, but no matter," he claps his hands once, hopped up from the shots of tequila he had at the bar downtown. He thought long and hard about his situation, while at Maeve's, before deciding that this is what needs to be done.  
  
Yaser furrows his brow and steps to him, just as worried as Trisha now.  
  
"I'm engaged," Zayn throws up his left hand. "That's right, I am engaged. Louis asked me and I said yes, so. That's my news."  
  
They all stare at him. Blinking a few times.  
  
"Does anyone have anything to say?" Zayn puts his hands on his hips. "Hello?"  
  
It takes another few seconds before every member of his family crowd around him to give polite congratulations. His dad claps both shoulders and kisses both cheeks, just like he did when Zayn told him he was dating Harry in high school, when he couldn't stop sweating buckets for fear of disappointing him.  
  
Doniya just nods her head and kisses Zayn, before retreating back upstairs. Safaa and Waliyha excitedly ask him about the wedding, if it'll be in the city, if they can be in it and bring dates, before they too head back up to their room. When he's left with just his parents, he steels himself and looks at them. His dad contemplates him, while his mom just gives him a sad smile.  
  
"So… Harry?"  
  
"We always thought… I mean, unless you got the divorce and never told us?"  
  
Zayn doesn't trust his traitorous chin, the shake that's been there since he was young, when he got too emotional too fast. So he just shakes his head and blinks it all away.  
  
"Soon. He has the papers. I gave him papers," Zayn nods. "It'll be over before I leave, so."  
  
They each hug him again, pat his cheeks, and then he's in the living room alone with only his thoughts. Zayn's slightly drunk, too angry and overwhelmed with his proclamation, and Harry's still right there, right in his mind, the way he looked earlier. The way he yelled at Zayn, that they're assholes, a pair of them, bound and twisted up together, like a knot, like a shriveled vine still crawling up the side of a cracked brick wall just in spite of itself.  
  
Zayn grabs for his phone and texts Louis, a quick _love you_ that he truly means. Because he's not an asshole. He's not.

  
  
_________

  
Zayn wakes up with a Post-It stuck to his forehead. He knows immediately because as his eyes flutter open, the eyelashes of his left lid catch on the paper. It's how Harry used to leave him notes when they were young, when Harry wanted to go on an adventure and Zayn was still asleep well into the morning. Zayn used to save them, kept them safe in a shoebox under his bed. It might even still be there, now that he thinks about it.  
  
But Zayn doesn't want to face it yet, whatever Harry has to say, because it means he came to the house. It means he talked to Zayn's parents, tiptoed up the creaking staircase with his finger over his lips, the shush Trisha used to give him with a wink. It means there are words, in Harry's handwriting, stuck to Zayn's head to relay a message.  
  
Sometimes they used to be simple, a _HI ZAAAAYN!_ or a _WAKE UP, IDIOT_. But then they devolved into real notes, the older they got, when Harry had to leave early before Zayn's parents woke up and found them naked in bed. It was a hard habit to break, to go from twerp best friends to young men in a relationship, especially when their sleepovers had to "stop," per Yaser. It was the same day he handed Zayn a box of condoms with downcast eyes and embarrassment flush on his cheeks.  
  
Once Harry wrote _I could watch you sleep all night, but you'd think I was creepy, so I just did it for two minutes, promise._  
  
One of the last notes said _I'll never forgive you_ , which Zayn most definitely did not save because he burned it with his lighter. He burned it because it was the most unfair thing Harry had ever said. Because it was a two way street and Zayn would never forgive Harry either.  
  
Zayn exhales as he rolls onto his back, willing the hangover to let up before it begins. This is why he chooses to get stoned; at least that haze doesn't have long lasting effects the next morning. He reaches up with weak fingers and grips the Post-It, to bring it into focus, slowly.  
  
_I read the papers and won't sign them. I don't agree with the terms. I'll be out on the boat all day. We can talk tomorrow. H._  
  
Zayn rolls his eyes, hating himself for expecting more, something different or nice. Maybe an apology or an assent, something besides the notice that Harry won't be around, and the same bullshit about not signing. Zayn becomes even more annoyed, as he crumples the little yellow square and tosses it across the room, because Harry still knows him. Zayn had planned on marching back to Harry's house, to demand his signature, after a quick shower and a cup of coffee.  
  
His mother eyes him as he slumps over the kitchen table twenty minutes later. She hands him some toast and eggs before he can even ask, so he kisses her forearm before she steps away.  
  
"So what did it say?" Trisha sits across from him, worried.  
  
"He took the boat out. Wants to talk about the paperwork. So no divorce for me today," Zayn shrugs, hitting the fork against this plate a little too loudly.  
  
"It was like we went back in time," she smiles. "There I was, at the stove making breakfast, when Harry Styles knocked on the back screen, like when he wanted to play or had a present for you. I could've sworn he was ten again, like maybe he had an old coffee can with a frog at the bottom. I handed him the Post-It pad before I even said hello."  
  
Zayn busies himself with buttering his toast, as Trisha sighs.  
  
"He kissed my cheek like always. So polite, so sweet. I just wish… I wish things had ended up different. Like they were supposed to."  
  
Zayn moves away from the table entirely, to put his plate in the sink, his stomach turning slightly. He should've known. Harry didn't just come over to leave him some stupid unnecessary note. Zayn would've gone to his empty house and knocked on his door to no avail, while Harry dozes out on the lake. But he came to the house, to be polite and sweet, to be around Zayn's family and kiss ass. Zayn wants to throw his coffee across the room.  
  
"Why does everyone always assume that it was my fault?" Zayn holds the counter and looks out the window, to the row of houses across the street, the neighbors mowing lawns and checking their mail.  
  
"I didn't say it was."  
  
"But you _think_ it was. You all do."  
  
"That's not true."  
  
"Do you all forget how _mad_ you were?" Zayn suddenly spins around to face her, his hands shaking. "We showed up at the house with silver rings and a marriage certificate, ma. You sat there when we told you what we did, how we did it without you, and you cried. You all cried."  
  
Trisha curls her hands into her lap and stares at him.  
  
"Dad said it wouldn't work, remember? And Anne almost slapped Harry, for getting married without her. Doniya wouldn't look at me. You were so angry."  
  
"Yes," she nods, agreeing.  
  
"So when it ended, only a few short months later, you were relieved, I know you were. You all were."  
  
"We were… concerned, at first, for how it would work. Because you were so young and still had school. But honey," she places her palm on the table, reaching towards him, eyes sad. "It was you and Harry. Even if we had some initial doubts, we always knew you'd end up together. Married someday. Even when you left for New York, we all… I think we all assumed it was temporary. That you'd find your way back together, you know?"  
  
Zayn sets his coffee on the table and backs away from her. He needs out of the kitchen he once cried in, right after Harry screamed in his face and shoved him off his mom's porch, after he ran home with his hands balled up into fists.  
  
"No," Zayn shakes his head, grabbing for his phone and Yaser's keys on the hook by the door. "No. Clearly I'm the only one who looks back on that shit without warped, rose-colored glasses. That's fine. I'll be the bad guy."

He's out the door before his mom can call him back.  
  
Zayn has to pull out of the driveway and get to the main road before he can breathe properly again. His fingers tighten on the wheel, his ring digging into his skin, feeling tighter than ever. He tries to breathe through his nose and out his mouth so he doesn't hyperventilate and get sick.  
  
It's just not fair. This was supposed to be easier, a quick trip home to finally rid himself of the last shred of Hammond Zayn. Harry wasn't supposed to be this way, not after all this time.  
  
Zayn huffs a final exasperated breath and steadies himself. If Harry says he's an asshole, if he's going to continue to lie to his fiancé, if he's the bad guy after all, Zayn can be that. He can fill that role just fine.

  
  
_________

  
_This music is kinda nice_ , Zayn muses to himself, as he bops around Harry's kitchen, careful not to step on Bruce sleeping near the table. It's not quite country, since it has a little more of a beat to it, something Zayn could grind to, if he were wasted in a club. It sounds like something Antonia might like, so Zayn texts her a quick audio bite of it, a smile on his face, before sending a _miss you_ to Louis, and a _thanks for everything_ to Vince, after sending in his recent work.  
  
That's how Harry finds him a few minutes later, in Anne's old kitchen, wearing a Kiss The Cook apron, bouncing from foot to foot, sugar and flour across his cheeks and all over the counters.  
  
"What… the _fuck_ are you doing here," Harry asks, his eyes sweeping across his mess of a kitchen, a heavy cooler of fish between his hands.  
  
"Husband!" Zayn throws his arms out, almost dropping his phone. "My love, my life, my everlasting. The key in the flowerpot next to the side door, still there. Thank you for that. How was your day?"  
  
"Zayn," Harry tries, anger oozing out of him.  
  
"What?" Zayn mocks him. "I wanted to do something nice for my husband. I made a cake. Is that so wrong?"  
  
"I told you I was gonna be gone all day."  
  
"Well it's six now, ain’t it, the sun’s down," Zayn rolls his eyes. "Did you catch us fish, baby? Did the whole hunter/gatherer thing, hmm? I'm just so lucky."  
  
Zayn grabs the red oven mitts from the table and peeks in the oven. He knows how to make a mean cake these days, after living with the girls for the last eight months, and he only had to call Steph for help twice. It looks done, so Zayn hums along to the music and pulls it out to cool on the stovetop.  
  
"What is all this?" Harry's voice is barely a growl at this point, as he steps into the kitchen with a murderous expression.  
  
Zayn almost smiles as he looks around, his hands on his hips. Not only did Zayn make a cake, he also went shopping. New pots and pans hang on the hooks over the center island, new stemware near the sink, a beautiful $450 stand mixer gleams near the toaster. The man at Best Buy said "espresso" was the most popular color, so Zayn figured Harry would like that. For good measure, he got a matching espresso blender, microwave, and slow cooker, all lined up near the fridge. He walks around the island and gestures to his purchases.  
  
"I shopped! See?"  
  
_"What?"_  
  
"Harry. My beautiful husband," Zayn looks at Harry like he's dense. "You went fishing and caught us dinner, so I figured I'd do the dessert side of things. See, as your husband, all I had to do was head to the credit union and withdraw money. I had my ID, of course, said we didn't have the same last name, but that I was right there alongside you when you opened the _joint_ account."  
  
Harry clenches his hands into fists, practically shaking with rage.  
  
"If we're gonna be married, if you want this so badly, then we might as well start acting like it!" Zayn smiles, hands back on his hips. The vanilla cake on the stove does smell delicious and Zayn wonders if he'll get far enough in this little game to actually frost it. It probably tastes like a dream.  
  
"What the _fuck_ are you playing at here?" Harry steps towards him, as Zayn steps back.  
  
"If you wanna be married, Haz, then let's be married. You wanna fuck me too? Right here?" Zayn can't believe how malicious he sounds, even as he turns towards the sink and grips the sides of it. When he glances back over his shoulder, Harry looks about three seconds from falling over.  
  
From some emotion Zayn can't place.  
  
"Fuck you."  
  
"No, Harry," Zayn gives up the game, finally. "Fuck _you._ "  
  
"I'm not signing your bullshit paperwork," Harry turns to head into the living room. "And I can't believe you'd even ask me to."  
  
Zayn chases after him, shoving the kitchen chairs out of his way, both of them crashing to the floor. He grabs for the apron, gets caught in it for a moment, before throwing it at Harry's back.  
  
"Why won't you just end this? Why are still punishing me? Just fucking sign them!" Zayn feels hysterical now, every emotion he has bubbling at the surface like a thick stew, percolating beneath his skin, ready to fight this out.  
  
Harry stands at the fireplace, facing away from Zayn and tugs at his hair, at a loss. Zayn almost moves around the coffee table, to really do it big, to shove Harry, to fight back, when Harry turns to him. His eyes wild, his face red.  
  
"You asked for an annulment, you fucking dick," Harry spews, hands in fists again. "Not a divorce."  
  
"What?"  
  
"'Party A requests an annulment in a court of equity, as the marriage was a result of levity, jest, and neither party having intention to assume the rights or responsibilities of marriage,'" Harry rattles off.  
  
Zayn takes a step back, his face blank.  
  
"You want our marriage to be erased. You want me to sign something that makes our marriage _void._ "  
  
"Harry."  
  
"Like it didn't exist," Harry cuts Zayn off, stepping closer. "Like it was a fucking joke."  
  
"Harry," Zayn tries again, his hand out in front of him, knocking against Harry's chest. He's wearing an old Pink Floyd t-shirt, some black ratty thing he's probably had for years. Zayn can feel the heat radiating off him, around them, the closer he gets.  
  
Zayn steps away further, but his back ends up hitting the staircase, Harry an inch from his face. Zayn's not scared, Harry is incapable of being scary, but this is new. This is Harry at a breaking point.  
  
"Why is it that you, the one who fucked _me_ over, fucked this up, gets to be the one to end it? Gets to be the one to say it never happened? Gets the fiancé and the sweet life?" Harry snarls, eyes bouncing across Zayn's face.  
  
Zayn flashes to that day, to the last fight, out on the porch. When it all came crashing down, not just their trust, but also their future. He can see it all: him upset, Harry yelling, the words they hurled at each other. It's true it started because of Zayn, because of the choice he made, but Zayn has to pinch himself to remember: _I'm not the bad guy, I don't want this role._  
  
Zayn zones back in, to Harry's smooth face, his green eyes, the ringlets hanging down his neck. And Zayn shoves him away as hard as he can.  
  
"I'm only going to say this once," Zayn holds a finger up. "Get over yourself, Harry. Grow the fuck up. We broke up mutually. You made the choice, just as much as I did. I didn't leave you, we left each other. And you walked away first! We left _this,_ at the very same time."  
  
Harry reaches a hand out to steady himself at the back of the couch. It's his turn to be bombarded tonight, as Zayn surges forward.  
  
"Neither of us was ready. And you fucking know that. You accused me of wanting to leave you behind, of packing up and going away, when that is not what I meant. You should've been fucking happy for me, for getting that last-minute admission to NYU. You should've been proud."  
  
"You lied about applying in the first place! We had a plan!" Harry shoves him back, Zayn stumbling. "We were supposed to settle together!"  
  
"Oh that's really interesting, coming from you. Mr. Wanted To Settle Down, now can hardly sit still, can you? You can barely live anywhere for longer than a year, so it's really fucking rich of you to hate me for wanting to leave," Zayn pulls at his hair, manic and on a roll, ready to twist the knife completely. "And don't act like it wasn't you who came up with the whole idea, the whole fucking marriage in the first place. It was _you_ who wanted it, because you were scared. You were a scared little boy who was nervous to be away at school, anxious over the huge life change, so you thought binding us together would save us. News flash: it didn't."  
  
Harry shoves Zayn again, this time towards the front door. Zayn feels it deep in his chest, the force behind it. He almost falls.  
  
"I hate you," Harry hisses, tears finally springing to his eyes. "I hate you more than I've ever hated anyone."  
  
"Join the fuckin' club," Zayn throws open the door. He jumps down the steps and grabs for the keys in his pocket, absolutely fuming. If he were to witness anyone else like this, about to get behind the wheel of a car, he'd probably intervene and say it was too dangerous.  
  
Zayn turns in the driver's seat, to maneuver his way back down the driveway, when he hears the _thump_ on the front window. He slams on the brake and whips his head around, to see Harry's boot on the hood of his dad's car. Harry hops down from the porch with one socked foot and stomps towards him, unevenly, as Zayn continues to back up.  
  
"You were supposed to ask me to come with you," Harry wrestles with his other boot, chucking it at the car. "You were supposed to take me with you. You lied, you applied without me and wanted to go alone, you fucking asshole. You left me!"  
  
Zayn can't look at Harry any longer. He presses his foot as hard as he can on the gas pedal, and speeds down Honeywell Street before he can cry, or worse, turn back around.

  
  
_________

  
"Zayn Malik!"  
  
Zayn sits on the barstool at Maeve's, the bar he passed out in back in high school, the place he shot back tequila days before, the only place he knew would accept him at the moment. He looks up morosely from the beer between his hands, at the bartender now walking towards him. The old guy who served Zayn starts to leave, with a wave, as he heads out for the night.  
  
It's Niall Horan, younger brother to Greg who was in Doniya's class. He graduated with Zayn and Harry, was always a nice guy, if maybe a little boisterous. They got along well enough, when classes kept them seated near each other, the two of them both honor students. Niall even ran track for a while, seemed to be poised for a scholarship, before he fucked his knee up and had to quit. They were never great friends, but they were friendly, and Zayn always values that in people, the ones who can get along with anyone.  
  
"Hey," Zayn tries to smile, the feeling too fleeting to get his face to work.  
  
Niall, ever the good bartender it seems, slides from happy-go-lucky to therapist, quick as a whip.  
  
"You good?" he leans in towards Zayn over the bar, eyeing him like a mother hen.  
  
"Sure," Zayn shrugs.  
  
Niall immediately grabs for Zayn's near empty beer bottle and replaces it with a new one, the cap tossed over his shoulder towards a trashcan. It makes an odd sound as it bounces off a dusty bottle of absinthe, and Zayn almost smiles again. Again, the feeling doesn't last long. Niall must see the look on his face, must know he's miserable, must see the empty shot glasses near his left hand. Tequila is supposed to be an upper, damn it.  
  
"You haven't been back here in awhile, right?"  
  
"Yeah," Zayn clears his throat, trying to be polite when all he wants is to be alone. "I live in New York now."  
  
"That's great."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"You do something with art, right? Like a designer?"  
  
"Graphic designer. And illustrator, I guess."  
  
"That's great."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Niall starts to clean up behind the bar, wipes down every surface, puts the lids back on the lime, lemon, and cherry box. He babbles about the bar, how he's worked there for a few years, after his dad retired and closed their accounting firm. Niall actually likes the bar better, prefers it to the monotony of numbers. Zayn nods and gives a few words here and there, but for the most part, he just drinks his way through each new beer Niall sets in front of him. After the second blow-up fight he's had in his life, with Harry Styles yet again, Zayn couldn't face his family or his house or his phone. He needs this, just this, so he watches Niall clean.  
  
Niall tosses a towel over his shoulder and gives Zayn a look.  
  
"You seen Harry at all? He's been back for like a year or something. We've gotten pretty close, actually," Niall takes a sip of his own beer. The place is officially empty then. They are the last two at the tail end of a Thursday night. Hammond never really picks up a good pace unless it's a Friday or Saturday. Zayn, in his hazy glory, realizes that if this were New York, he would be tucked in the corner of a ridiculously crowded, trendy Brooklyn bar, listening to a shitty cover band or Metallica acoustics, his sorrows drowned out not by booze, but by incessant noise. Zayn thinks of himself as lucky, at the moment, to be somewhere quiet. To be home.  
  
"Uh yeah. Yeah, I've seen him."  
  
"It's a shame about you two," Niall nods, like Zayn must agree. "I mean, you got married and we all thought you were fucking insane, of course. But I think it was mostly just a shock, you know? Like people were surprised you had the balls to do it so young?"  
  
Zayn nods and looks down at his beer. It's almost empty. He needs another.  
  
"But then it sort of clicked like, well of _course_ you got married. Everyone knew you would eventually, right?"  
  
Zayn doesn't nod at that.  
  
"Just a shame, is all, when you both went off to different places hating each other. A shame," Niall shrugs.  
  
Zayn almost gets up then, to wobble his way towards the door, but his feet feel like lead. So he sits still.  
  
"I think he went off because you did," Niall offers. "Like maybe he went and lived a million different places, because you weren't here anymore. And maybe he thought you'd find each other. Somewhere else."  
  
Zayn doesn't hear or understand much of what Niall's saying anymore. He finishes his beer, his mouth peeling off the bottle with a _pop_ , before setting it down with an unsteady hand. It's not even that late, it's barely eleven, and yet it feels like he's the only human being besides Niall awake at the moment. Out the large windows to his left, Main Street is silent, eerily still, not even a breeze to make the leaves dance. It's like everything really, truly goes to sleep in this town, once the sun's been set for a few hours. Zayn can't decide if he likes it or wants to go back to New York immediately.  
  
Niall says something so Zayn shakes his head, to zone back in, his eyes crossing slightly as he tries to focus on the blue eyes across from him.  
  
"I'm having a barbecue tomorrow," Niall comes around the bar, hitting the lights as he goes. "To watch the game, then a party, if we win. You should come."  
  
"Who's gon' be there," Zayn slurs, eyes heavy.  
  
Niall comes right up to him and lifts him up by the wrist to walk, his arm around Zayn's waist. Zayn thinks he hears a laugh, but it might just be in his head, and then he hears the door being locked somewhere behind him as he leans against the brick wall outside. Zayn might say something about needing to be in a bed, or on a flat surface, and then he mumbles something about his dad's car, before immediately wondering if Harry should've come to New York with him. But he might be wrong, he's probably not saying any of that, as his head gets heavier and Niall grabs him around the waist again.  
  
After that it all goes dark.

  
  
_________

  
Sometimes Louis wakes Zayn up by blowing in his ear, with a steady stream of hot breath. It's not something he ever really gets used to, that feeling of utter surprise and annoyance all at once. Zayn usually ends up smacking at Louis's face until he stops, which then spurs him to do it more. Louder, harsher, in a full whistle, while crawling up on top of Zayn. Zayn can always feel the rumble of Louis's chest against his own, as he laughs his head off at Zayn's cursing. He never lets Zayn sleep, never leaves him a sweet note, to flutter awake to. Just breath and noise, like the world's worst alarm clock.  
  
So before he opens his eyes to the breath on his face, Zayn reaches a hand up to cover it, to spare himself.  
  
"S'enough Lou," Zayn croaks. "Stop."  
  
It actually smells like shit, the hot breath huffing right over his nose and mouth. It's then that he remembers, that he's not home, this isn't Louis. Zayn's eyes fly open, his entire body scrambling back from it, at the massive face an inch from his. A German Shepherd. A large, imposing, scary-as-shit German Shepherd panting. Staring at him.  
  
A sharp whistle sounds out from Zayn's left, as he finally assesses where the fuck he is.  
  
"Piper, heel," Niall chuckles, walking with two mugs of coffee into the den Zayn's found himself in. Wooden paneled walls, two huge leather armchairs, a pool table in the corner, a flat screen across from where he's tucked on a deep burgundy couch. Niall settles in one of the chairs, with his massive dog plopping down on the floor next to his feet.  
  
Zayn's not home, he's not in his bed with Louis. He's in Hammond, but not at his parents' house. He's not at the bar from last night, the last place he remembers being. He was on that stool at Maeve's, drowning in tequila and shitty beer. With Niall. Did they stay that late?  
  
"We…"  
  
"You were a shit show last night," Niall sips his coffee, gesturing to the mug he set near Zayn. "I thought it was probably best for you not to go home to your parents."  
  
Zayn's mouth is sour and tacky, the coffee probably a terrible idea. But those are really the only ideas Zayn knows how to work with these days, so he reaches for it. It's too hot, he winces when it touches his tongue.  
  
"Shit. My dad's car."  
  
"I called Doniya from your phone. She came and got it this morning."  
  
"Fuck," Zayn closes his eyes.  
  
"She's cool," Niall shrugs with a smile. "Is she single?"  
  
"Not in a million years," Zayn eyes him, before he too smiles. "And thank you. For… drinking with me, for one. And for keeping me far away from my mom. Thanks."  
  
"No worries."  
  
"I need to call Lou," Zayn exhales, still exhausted.  
  
"Your phone's been going crazy, so. Probably should."  
  
Zayn doesn't move to do it, though. He glances to his phone on the coffee table and sees it light up with a text from Louis, to sit right there next to all his missed calls. It's already one in the afternoon, the time on his phone mocking him for being an asshole. Zayn's a shitty, terrible person who leaves his fiancé, ignores his calls all morning, right after getting drunk because of a fight with his current husband. For the second time in only a few days.  
  
Niall leaves him to it, thankfully. He whistles for Piper to follow him, which she does rather reluctantly. Zayn should pet her, he thinks.  
  
"Are you dead?" Louis hisses after only one ring. "That's the only reason you would wait this long to call me."  
  
"I'm sorry," Zayn rubs at his face, closing his eyes. "I was with my friend last night. He works at this bar and we were talking, just… I had too many drinks. Just woke up."  
  
"Your friend?"  
  
"We went to high school together. Niall. He's cool."  
  
"And you just hung out? Had drinks then?"  
  
"Yes, Louis. We had drinks. He just asked if my sister was single," Zayn smacks his head against the couch. "Don't do that."  
  
"If this were the other way around, you'd be saying the same thing. And what did I say before you left? I said, don't piss me off from so far away. It's not fair."  
  
"Yeah, well," Zayn shrugs, because not much is fair these days.  
  
"Why are you making me feel bad? Why am I the bad guy?" Louis says, full frown on his face. Zayn knows Louis's voice when he frowns, the way his entire face falls, the line between his eyebrows.  
  
Zayn hates himself then. He really does, would swear it on a Bible. He's not just a terrible partner, but a selfish one. If his track record is anything to go by, Zayn really is the bad guy.  
  
"I'm sorry," Zayn whispers, lip shaking. "I'm really sorry, babe. I love you. I fucking miss you."  
  
"I miss you, too."  
  
"I'm almost done here, I swear. I just… a few more days. I'll say bye and then I'm coming home. I'll be home before you know it."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Okay?" Zayn presses. "So you won't be pissed at me anymore? We're okay?"  
  
Louis doesn't say anything for a few seconds, probably running his fingers along his forearm over his stupid tattoos. Drinking tea, thinking hard, sweats tucked into his socks. He has a show in a few hours. This is the last thing he needs, to worry about Zayn.  
  
"I wish you would've asked me to come with you," Louis finishes. "I think it would've been easier. If I was with you."  
  
"That's true," Zayn closes his eyes. "I think that's absolutely true."  
  
Zayn knows it's true. It's probably the truest thing he's ever heard. If he had told Louis the truth, about Harry, he could've brought Louis with him. He could've introduced him to his family, had a clean break with Harry because Harry isn't cruel. He'd see Zayn with his hand being held by someone else, and he would've signed. He would've given up, no harsh words, no fighting.  
  
Zayn wouldn't be thinking about Harry at all, he wouldn't be hung over like this. He wouldn't have heard Harry scream at him words that will probably haunt him for the rest of his life. _You want our marriage to be erased. You were supposed to take me with you. I hate you more than I've ever hated anyone._  
  
They eventually hang up, with quick goodbyes and promises about talking before bed. And when Niall comes back into the den with a cold beer and a shrug, Zayn takes it.

  
  
_________

  
Zayn's in charge of replenishing the food. That's the job Niall gave him after he stepped out of Niall's bathroom rubbing at his wet hair, in his black jeans and one of Niall's shirts. Niall said it with a wink, that if Zayn's going to be a "free loader on a couch" he needs a job for the day.  
  
So as various friends and acquaintances make their way into Niall's house, shaking Zayn's hand, glad that he's back in town, Zayn keeps his eye on the kitchen. He brings Niall the steaks and burgers on a tray, keeps the chip bowls full, hauls beer up from the big cooler in the basement to keep the fridge full.  
  
It gives him something to do, a plan of action, a clear objective, when all Zayn wants to do is lay his head down. But going home means Doniya's discerning eye, his mom's worried face, his dad's disappointed silence. It means facing the fight from the night before, the papers he still needs from Harry, Harry Styles himself.  
  
This barbecue is the best thing to ever happen to Zayn, as he takes a pull of his beer and pets Piper again. She's been at his side all afternoon, well after sunset, and he's grateful for her as well. She's calm, protective, sweet as hell. He keeps bending down to kiss her ears, to whisper praise. She seems to like it. Even when people come up to Zayn and ask questions about New York, what he does, if he ever plans on coming home, he keeps his hand on Piper's head.  
  
Zayn senses Harry's arrival before he actually sees him. He shows up after the food is gone, after everyone's watched the practically eight hour baseball game. The Nationals won, much to Niall and his friends' delight, so they're all pretty drunk and in the mood to continue the fun. There's an old Eagles song playing somewhere, vodka bottles clattering on the counter, shots being poured. It feels like college again, a house party where they have to keep their voices down so the cops don't get called, except for the few people who mention calling to check in with their kids' babysitters. Piper, the traitor, leaves him when Bruce comes bounding in, the two dogs sprinting through the open back door to go run laps around the house.  
  
Without Piper's soft head under his hand, he feels a little dizzy, the beer making him unsteady yet again. Harry stares at him as he crosses the living room. Maybe they're both silently apologizing, but maybe not. Zayn can't tell, so he swallows the lump in his throat and looks away.  
  
They orbit around each other carefully, side stepping like it's a dance, never in the same room at once. Zayn talks to some of his friends from high school, tries to ignore the elephant stomping on his chest. He catches up with Dan Hunt and his wife, who came through New York a few years before. They reminisce about the drinks they had, at the bar by Zayn's old apartment in Williamsburg. Niall crowds against him a few times, his cheeks red, thanking him for helping out, kissing his forehead for being so handsome.  
  
Only one person asks Zayn about Harry. It's an old classmate, James Walsh, a nice guy with a doctorate in classics from Stanford, who can't hold his liquor, apparently.  
  
"So you and Styles don't talk?" James sniffs, wiping at his slick mouth.  
  
Everyone else must know it's not something to discuss, the divorce between two people who happen to be in the same house. A few girls near them even wince and scurry away, embarrassed to be so close to such an awkward subject.  
  
"No," Zayn moves back into the kitchen, away from the den where Harry's just come in, with a full beer of his own. He's in those tight black jeans again and some stupid flowy white shirt that's about two buttons away from falling right off. Zayn averts his eyes as he walks, and James follows after him. Zayn curses the universe.  
  
"You got married too young, man. That's what did it. You'd probably still be together if had you waited."  
  
"Maybe so," Zayn nods politely.  
  
"Sorry," James grabs his shoulder. "Tough subject. I'll shut up."  
  
"Okay."  
  
But James doesn't move away. He just nods again, his big sad eyes resting on Zayn's face.  
  
"If it helps, he keeps looking at you. Like every time you move or walk around, he watches you. If it helps."  
  
"It doesn't."  
  
"Still. He used to do it back in school, too. Did it all the time. You both did."  
  
Zayn shoves his left hand further into his jeans pocket, the gold and black ring too tight. Niall's shirt feels too tight as well, like it's choking him, the air too heavy in the house. James shrugs and finally leaves him alone, wobbles towards the back door to the main group laughing on the deck. Bruce and Piper bark happily, still running around them all, in between legs, as someone turns up the music louder.  
  
Zayn and Harry lock eyes when Zayn turns towards the den. Harry's there in a conversation with Niall and Patrick, a beer bottle at his mouth, gaze unwavering. Zayn can't tell if he's still angry, upset like he was the night before, or if he's resigned to this now. To being awkward and quiet, practically miles apart again. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, his lips red and wet, unblinking. Zayn feels like the floor is bottoming out below his feet, so he drags his eyes away from Harry and heads towards the bathroom.  
  
He can't tell if he's going to be sick or if he needs to rest his eyes, something, anything. He just can't look at Harry anymore, can't try to guess how he's feeling from across a room, like they used to when they were teenagers. Harry's never been a riddle to solve, a puzzle with a missing corner piece, a crossword with no solution. But Zayn can't read Harry at the moment, he can't find the intent behind his stare. It's too unnerving, drives him crazy, and he can't think about it or dig deep to ask why. He just can't.  
  
The second time they had their first kiss, in Zayn's bed when everything all at once seemed topsy-turvy and right side up, Harry pulled Zayn close. He was tentative about it, a hand on Zayn's hip, eyes concerned, ridiculously sixteen and nervous. But Zayn was the one to actually lean in, the one to lick his lips to remind Harry to follow along, the one to connect them.  
  
It's a lot like that again, this time around.  
  
Zayn leans on the sink, his hands cold and clammy. Harry doesn't knock, just opens the bathroom door and slides in. Their hips brush as Zayn looks up into the mirror, to see Harry's messy curls and bloodshot eyes hovering over his shoulder. The mirror's dirty, speckled with toothpaste and fingerprints from Niall wiping at it after his showers, and yet it's the best view Zayn's ever seen. Their matching expressions. Blank. Way too blank.  
  
Harry grabs his hips and turns him around so they're face-to-face, close like the night before. There's no anger bouncing off them, no words hanging in the air. They're not fighting, they're not married or divorced, they're not worrying. They're them again, just them. Harry doesn't snarl at Zayn, and Zayn doesn't shove him away. Harry keeps close, fingers digging into Zayn's skin, unmoving.  
  
Zayn surges forward and kisses him, his hands in Harry's hair. They slot together perfectly, like they've always done. Zayn kisses Harry's top lip first because it's his favorite, then his bottom lip. The corner of Harry's smile, left side first, then the right side, his cupid's bow, down his chin. He tastes the same, he tastes different and new, he tastes like June 12th and lazy summers and crisp winters. Harry sighs into it, his mouth opening, hot and insistent. He falls back against the bathroom wall and pulls Zayn with him, until they're touching from mouth to feet, everywhere, all over, sweating.  
  
Zayn can't stop, he can't think. He just opens up further, his tongue sliding against Harry's, all soft velvet and sweet. Harry makes this sound, some whimpering thing Zayn tucks into his pocket, before bringing a hand to Zayn's ass. Zayn's eyes fly open, just for a second, so he can see Harry's face up close, before tightening his hold in Harry's hair.  
  
Harry slots a thigh between Zayn's and that's it, they're done for. They both know it as Harry scrambles for Zayn's fly, as Zayn lets it happen. Zayn closes his eyes, shakes his head a little in protest, but he doesn't stop him. He can never stop Harry, he's never even tried. And as Harry groans when he realizes Zayn isn't wearing anything under his jeans, Zayn's toes curl. He pulls Harry's hair, winds it around his fingers, all long and tangled, kisses him harder, bites at his lip.  
  
Harry works on his own fly then, shoving it down just enough to get his cock out. And then Zayn feels him, feels Harry's hot length against his own, and it's enough. It's just enough to get him there, as they slide against each other, hot panting against each other’s necks. Zayn bites him there, just a small one, to get another sound out of Harry, something else he can save.  
  
He's not let down, not in the slightest, when Harry cries into his ear. It's wet, too wet, and Zayn thinks he should touch, one of them should. To grab their cocks and hold them together, a fist to fuck into, but he can't. He can't let go of Harry's hair, can't let his face out from between his palms, he needs to keep Harry's mouth as close to his as he can. Harry must not be able to do it either, his owns hands holding Zayn's neck, the back of his head, his cheeks, hands everywhere.  
   
They can barely breathe the closer they get, the more pressure Zayn applies, the more Harry pushes back. They rut against each other like that, for another minute, like desperate teenagers about to be caught with their jeans open. Zayn remembers how Harry was his first kiss, twice, his first everything, the first person who ever took him apart and put him back together. Harry was Zayn's first best friend, his confidant, his sounding board, the glue to his entire childhood. Zayn licks Harry's lips again, one full circle, to see if he can taste the blue popsicle Harry had eaten that day by the lake in fourth grade.  
  
Zayn can't speak, doesn't even know what he'd say, but Harry can. Harry does.  
  
"Zayn," he whispers, a small one, when Zayn's cock head catches on his own.  
  
Harry comes first with a breathy shudder, his entire body seizing, fingernails digging into the base of Zayn's skull. He comes all over them, dripping down Zayn's cock, hot and sticky, his tongue reaching for Zayn's. And then Zayn follows right after, spurting white against Harry's groin, over his exposed hip bone, down into the hair at Harry's base. It's too much, Zayn shakes through it, stares down as the last few weak strings hit Harry, just laying there like Zayn aimed for him.  
  
Zayn brings his eyes up, finally. Harry does the same. They stare at each other, at a loss. Harry loosens his grip on Zayn's head and brings his shaking fingers to Zayn's forehead, to wipe the sweat collected at his hairline. He smooths Zayn's hair, tucks it some, and runs a thumb across Zayn's bottom lip.  
  
Zayn can't move. He just focuses on breathing, since he's pretty sure the autonomy his lungs once had, is done for.  
  
Zayn's done for. His left hand rests against Harry's neck, his engagement ring on fire against his skin, taunting him.  
  
He's fucked.

_I'm the bad guy after all._

  
  
_________

  
The walk home is a slow one. Zayn thinks he purposefully drags it out, to really force his body into the exertion. He doesn't ask for a ride home, or call one of the few cabs still working past eight. As he rounds the corner off Main Street, the wind picks up so he tugs at the thin Henley Niall loaned him, the one that smells like Harry. As he passes the bookstore right at the end of his block, he wonders if he would've been happy working someplace like that, small and innocuous, in his hometown. He doesn't know if he would've been happy here, if he had come back after college. He thinks he could've been happy, maybe. Harry might've come back too, if Zayn had called him. He shuffles along, still a little drunk, his mind a million miles away and still stuck in this town at the same time.  
  
Harry left the bathroom first, after grabbing a towel and wiping them off. He looked at Zayn, through him, inside him. He needed a word, either of comfort or solace or anger. Maybe he was waiting for Zayn to slap him, for Zayn to blow up and scream. Maybe he was waiting for Zayn to kiss him, to hug him close, to make a decision.  
  
But Zayn couldn't do any of it, couldn't wrap his brain around any one emotion, so Harry left, the door closing behind him with a sharp snap.  
  
Zayn left Niall's house ten minutes later, after psyching himself up into leaving the bathroom that reeked of sweat and come. Niall didn't ask for a hug, just ruffled Zayn's hair a little, and shoved him towards the door. Maybe Niall knew, maybe the whole party knew, what happened. Maybe they were all happy to see the back of him, Zayn Malik the cheater, the liar, the 27-year-old soon-to-be ex-husband of a guy they actually like and respect.  
  
It's as he climbs up the stairs to his house that he realizes: it's taken him this long, the entire walk home, to remember Louis. To feel the anguish and sorrow for what he's done, the pain he's caused the man he's supposed to be taking care of. Louis trusts him, is a good person even when he acts like he's not, takes care of Zayn in return. Zayn's chin shakes as he steps into the living room, completely ashamed and reviled at the person he is. He hopes Doniya is around so he can cry in her lap. She needs to tell him how to be a good person again. He kicks off his boots and plans to fall right on top of her, when he hears her voice in the living room.  
  
But Louis is there instead, sitting on his parents' couch with a small smile on his face and a cup of tea in his hand.  
  
They're all there, his entire family in the living room, with Louis Tomlinson right in the center.

  
  
_________

  
Zayn says it's because he needs a shower, needs to rest his eyes, can't do it when his parents are just down the hall. He shakes the water from his hair and smiles at Louis, says it's because he's missed holding him close most of all, that the sex can wait until they get home. He lies over and over, when Louis crowds against him in his small childhood bed and asks if he's feeling okay, if he's glad that his whole family knows their news, if he's angry that Louis showed up.  
  
At that, Zayn does tell the truth. He has to.  
  
"I could never be angry with you," Zayn pulls his chin up to look him in the eye, serious. "I could never be angry at you doing something nice. I could never be angry when you're in the room. Ever."  
  
Louis kisses him hard and deep, so unlike the polite pecks they so often give each other, when days become long and their lives roll on. It's different from the comfortable, robotic kisses exchanged between spouses and old married couples, like they usually are. Like they've become. Zayn kisses him back, of course he does, but he sees flashes of green and curls behind his eyelids, and he feels his stomach turn. It's not okay, what he did. It's not okay, to have these thoughts.  
  
Zayn breaks the kiss to pull Louis close, to let him sleep after his long day of traveling.

  
  
_________

  
Yaser and Trisha are already in the throws of making a late breakfast when Zayn wanders in the next morning. No one says much, after the night before when Louis talked all their ears off, about himself, his upbringing, the life he lives with Zayn alongside him. The Maliks, while they are a family who revel in raucous laughter and heated discussions, also tend to need time to be quiet. Zayn closes his eyes as he drinks his coffee, grateful for the only sounds around him being the sizzling of the frying pan and the old radio in the corner.  
  
The girls all filter in one after the other, they too trying to wake up and savor the steady silence. Safaa drinks her juice at the table, Waliyha works on taking plates into the dining room. Doniya eyes Zayn for a few seconds, like she's about to bring up something Zayn can't talk about yet, before instead leaning towards the radio to turn it up.  
  
Zayn can't help but smile, as the song changes to "Hook" by Blues Traveler, the whitest and most ridiculous song on the planet. Yaser actually whoops at the opening chords, tosses his hands up to prepare them for the show, and dances over to Trisha. She rolls her eyes, but lets him dance behind her at the stove. Zayn forgot how much he loves his dad's voice, the way he sings old songs to make them smile. He used to sing Spice Girls songs when any of his kids got sick, so sure of his voice's healing powers.  
  
_The hook brings you back,_ Doniya pokes at Zayn's cheeks, to join her. Which he does, just a little reluctantly. In the end, they all sing along. Safaa doesn't know the words, but it's never stopped her before, so she twirls under Zayn's arm.  
  
It's enough to make Zayn forget the mess he's in for a few minutes, especially when his dad mimes the harmonica bridge in the middle. Even more than that, it reminds Zayn to come home. All the time, every few months, once a month if he can swing it.  
  
Louis steps in the kitchen right as Zayn does the end verse, the run he still embarrassingly knows every word to. Louis smiles at Zayn, but also eyes him like someone has overtaken Zayn's body. It sort of breaks the magic, when someone besides them tries to bop along. Doniya pretends she turns the radio down because the song ends, but Zayn sees her expression.  
  
"Smells great," Louis smiles, gripping Zayn's hand.  
  
Now that someone has spoken, it opens up the room to more conversation. As they all settle in the dining room, Waliyha starts in about a few people from her class, Safaa tells their mom about what she wants to do for her graduation party. Zayn tries to eat, but with every bite sliding down his throat, he knows he's closer and closer to what he needs to do. What he needs to say.  
  
Doniya pulls him out of his thoughts, brings him back.  
  
"What?" Zayn looks to her. "Sorry, what?"  
  
"Someone's at the door," Doniya grips her fork and gestures to the front door.  
  
Zayn blinks. Louis sees it, his expression as he stares at her. He stops mid chew to look at each of them. No one else looks at Zayn, every other member of his family suddenly too interested in their plates, cellphones, the space above Zayn's head.  
  
"Don't you think you should answer it?" Doniya shrugs, challenging.  
  
But she knows as well as Zayn does that nothing as simple as a door could ever stop Harry Styles. So Zayn doesn't move, doesn't say anything, when three seconds later Harry lets himself in and saunters into the dining room.  
  
"Good morning, Maliks," Harry smiles, easy going as all hell, gripping Trisha's shoulder. Zayn sees a Post-It pad and a pen in his other hand, as his eyes land on Zayn, surprised. "Wow, you're awake."  
  
Harry doesn't sense the tension in the room, must not recognize it, as he looks around at each member of the family. He's still smiling a stupid grin, his polite parental grin, until it dies. He finally, fucking finally, lands on Louis. Louis, next to Zayn, in Zayn's sweatshirt, his hair a rumpled mess.  
  
Louis looks at Harry, Harry looks at Louis, until they both turn to look at Zayn, who can't speak. Again.  
  
"I…" Harry backs up, tries for an awkward wave. "I just wanted to say hi. So… hi."  
  
As the front door closes, Yaser takes it upon himself to start telling a story, his voice big and booming, to take up all the oxygen in the room. To save Zayn. They all join in, each Malik besides Doniya, to tell stories and ask questions. But Zayn doesn't want to be saved, not now.  
  
Louis turns to him with a question in his eye, but Zayn shakes his head to quiet him. He stands, exhales, and finally grabs for Louis's hand, to pull him to the porch.  
  
Harry's just beyond the driveway when they step out onto the porch, the crisp morning sun heating Zayn's skin instantly. It feels like summer, almost. It's so close to summer, May dipping towards June, and Zayn wants nothing more than to close his eyes and bask in it. To soak it up before he has to return to the cold, hard city, where he won't be able to see the sky from his window.  
  
But it's time.  
  
"Harry Styles," Zayn hollers like he used to when he was ten and asking if Harry could come out to play.  
  
Harry must debate making a run for it, when he won't turn around right away. But maybe he knows it's time as well. He heads back towards the house, a hunch to his shoulders, a squint to his eyes, the sun too strong.  
  
"Hey," he nods, shoving the Post-Its and pen into his back pocket. Ready now.  
  
"Louis," Zayn exhales, "this is Harry. Harry, this is Louis. My fiancé."  
  
Harry winces slightly at the word, but steadies himself and steps towards the porch to reach up for a handshake. Louis's not as polite about it, doesn't smile or lean in. He drops Harry's hand a little too fast, a little too swiftly, and Harry winces at that, too.  
  
"Nice to meet you," Harry falls back again, towards the grass. He wants to leave, he wants to run, Zayn can tell.  
  
Zayn steps away from Louis, towards the stairs, because he wants to leave too, he wants to run, to escape all of it. But he can't, he has to own up to at least one of his mistakes, the one sitting on his chest, clawing at his lungs, his heart, his spinal cord.  
  
"Lou, I need to tell you something," Zayn looks up at him leaning against the house.  
  
"What is it," Louis crosses his arms, saying it like a statement instead of a question.  
  
Harry hangs his head and steps even further away, breathing too harshly through his mouth. Zayn almost tells him to calm down, he doesn't have his inhaler, but he shakes his head to snap out of it.  
  
"It's… it was a long time ago. Harry and I. We… we got married. After high school."  
  
Louis schools his face, to keep it neutral. He's an actor; he knows how to become a blank slate, a whiteboard for directors to draw expressions onto. He's paid to do it, all the papers say he's great at his job, that he could win awards for his work. Zayn sees it then, how easy it is for Louis to keep his eyes from widening. He doesn't get upset, or cry, or even yell at Zayn for it.  
  
"You've been married before," Louis says evenly.  
  
"We're… still married," Zayn's cheeks flare. He bites his lip.  
  
"What?"  
  
"That's why I came. I needed… we needed to sign the papers. I need to file the papers."  
  
"You're still married," Louis nods, tucking the information away. "You're wearing my ring. And you're still married."  
  
"I'm sorry," Zayn's brain works again, finally. He stumbles back up onto the porch to hold Louis's hand, to touch him somewhere. "I'm so sorry. I just… I needed to figure it out, to handle it, and then I was going to tell you."  
  
Louis won't look him in the eye, instead just hangs his head towards the warped wood beneath their feet. Zayn glances to Harry, who surveys him with sad, tired eyes. It's a lot like their breakup fight that summer, when they officially ended it. When Harry felt betrayal and Zayn felt defeated. Harry does what he did then, just shakes his head and turns away. He's gone and to the end of the block before Zayn brings his eyes back to Louis. He's staring at Zayn like they've never met before, like Zayn's a stranger with a pretty face and too many secrets written across his forehead.  
  
"I'm sorry," Zayn tries again.  
  
"Did you fuck him?" Louis cocks his head, face still blank.  
  
That sentence hangs in the air well after Louis goes back into the house, for the minutes that Zayn stands there alone, the sun shining and bright on his face.

  
  
_________

  
Zayn sits on his bed a few hours later and watches Louis pack up his things. He's barely been there a full day, but his possessions have made their way across Zayn's floor, up onto his desk, even joining the girls' clothes hanging from the treadmill in the corner. Zayn tried to explain further, to offer words of comfort or self-hatred, whichever Louis needed to hear. But Louis just held up his hands and got back on his phone, rearranging a direct flight into LaGuardia.  
  
Louis won't look at him, can barely even open his eyes, as he blindly reaches around Zayn on the bed for his t-shirt. Zayn watches the sun set behind Louis's golden hair, perfect once more over his forehead, after Louis took a shower for half an hour, and walked out with a pressed shirt and nice jeans. Louis would never fly as anything less than perfect and put together. He told Zayn once, that only inconsiderate assholes fly in sweats and old jerseys.  
  
Zayn leans back and rests his head on his pillow, as Louis finally looks at him.  
  
"I need to go home. And think," he nods, still devoid of emotion. "You should think, too. Really think."  
  
Zayn tightens his hands into fists at his sides, and nods back.  
  
He listens as Louis trudges down the stairs with his bag. He wouldn't let Zayn help, wouldn't let him walk him to the door. Zayn can hear him murmuring to his parents, saying thank you, telling the girls how nice they look for their respective parties that night. Doniya left earlier, said something about her friend's game night, so Trisha's the last Malik to send Louis on his way. No one attempts to climb the stairs to talk to him, to ask what happened, to offer their condolences. Either they all think he got what he deserved, or they know he won't talk. Zayn exhales into the silence, content with it.  
  
Zayn might've fallen asleep soon after, or perhaps hours later, he's not exactly sure. All he knows is that when he opens his eyes, his room is completely dark and out his window, the streetlights are on. The house sounds empty, silent and steady, except for the breathing from his doorway.  
  
Harry takes the two steps to Zayn's bed and sits down near Zayn's feet. They don't say anything right away, just continue in the silence. Harry very rarely sits still, or shuts his mouth, but he can when it counts.  
  
"I'm sorry I never told you about NYU," Zayn hears himself say, voice steady as a drum. “I applied because it was my dream school, a place I never thought I’d get into. That’s why I never told you, since it was never a possibility. And then when it was… I just, I’m sorry for not explaining it to you.”  
  
Harry blows air out of his mouth, shocked.  
  
"Never thought I'd hear you say that."  
  
"Yeah, well. You know me. I can be slow, sometimes," Zayn sits up to lean against his wall, both of them staring at the same space of his room now, the wall covered in drawings and paintings, ticket stubs from concerts, lanyards from festivals.  
  
"I'm sorry for not being happy for you. When you got into NYU."  
  
"I'm sorry for leaving, for never calling."  
  
"Me too."  
  
"I'm sorry for sending the papers without talking to you first, for being an asshole, for running."  
  
"I ran, too," Harry nods slowly, like it hurts. "I went to school, went to Wilmington just like we planned. I did it, I got through it, graduated and everything. And then I told myself someone in marketing shouldn't be in one place, so I ran. I ran all over, never sat still."  
  
Zayn nods. They've always been a lot alike, always faced challenges the same way. It's probably why Harry asked Zayn to marry him in the first place, and definitely why Zayn said yes.  
  
"I never stopped loving you, though, even when I hated you, even when I was with other people, even when I loved someone else," Harry's voice finally shakes. "I just... it was never... It's like, I think I thought we'd end up back here, or somewhere else, if that's where I found you. I never thought we'd ever truly be over."  
  
Zayn closes his eyes.  
  
"Because we fight. We always have. We claw and scratch, we tear each other to pieces, we yell. And then we make up. We were supposed to make up."  
  
"I know," Zayn keeps his eyes closed tight. He doesn't want to see the ticket stubs and lanyards anymore, because every one of those days, those memories, were all with Harry by his side. Every single one.  
  
"I thought about moving to New York," Harry offers, his voice lighter. "I thought maybe if we were both there, I don't know… I'd call you and we'd talk."  
  
"Why didn't you?"  
  
"My mom got sick," Harry shrugs out his answer. He'd never leave his mom in such a way, with only Gemma to help out. Zayn almost asks if now that she's better, if he'd consider it, or why he hasn't made the move already.  
  
But Zayn doesn't ask. He keeps his mouth shut, as he feels Harry tense up next to him, his tone serious.  
  
"But maybe it was meant to be. Because seeing you with Louis… seeing him, right here inside your house, it just… I think it's what I needed. I really do. I think it's what we both needed, to finally be done. To be grown ups."  
  
"Real men," Zayn can't help but smile. They used to say it as little boys, that they couldn't wait to be men, with mustaches and flasks of whiskey and good boots on their feet. They wanted to look like Yaser, right from the start.  
  
"We never should've gotten married," Harry finishes, like it's the last time they'll ever speak. "We were kids who had no idea what being married meant. That summer was amazing, that time we spent living together at my mom's house, was great. It felt… it felt right for us, then. But… we weren't married. We never were, not really."  
  
Zayn turns his head, to look at Harry, to see his profile. It's just as beautiful as always, the dip to his nose, the way his eyebrows dance when he's upset, the teeth marks he makes in his upper lip. Zayn's about to speak, to say he's sorry again and again, until he's said it a million times, until he has to leave for New York to apologize a million times more to Louis. But Harry's movements stop him. Harry sits forward, moves his body towards Zayn slightly, and grabs the large folded manila envelope out of his back pocket.  
  
"Signed, dated, and notarized," Harry hands it over, his voice wet.  
  
Zayn didn't even know Harry had it, and now, the envelope feels like it's full of lead, the longer it sits in Zayn's hands. It's all there, ready to be turned in to the courts, to dissolve the one thing designed to last. Harry actually did as Zayn asked, for once in his life, and it's all there. It's the last part of the puzzle, to rectify the childish mistake that keeps him from his new life with Louis. If they decide to make it work, if they can. It's in Zayn's grasp then, literally, his life full of Louis and New York Zayn.  
  
Zayn's crying before he realizes it. He wipes at his nose and tries to keep from sniffling too hard. Harry can't be in the same room as someone crying and not cry himself, so Zayn rearranges his features. He's fine.  
  
"You should go home, Zayn," Harry coughs into his fist.  
  
"I know. New York is home now, you're right. But I've been here all week, and here… here works too, you know? It fits like it used to."  
  
Harry nods and starts to shift, to get up and leave. The _we also fit like we used to_ sits there, unspoken by both of them. Zayn stands up with him, grips the envelope as hard as he can so he won't drop it, and faces Harry. Like a man.  
  
"I'm sorry for what happened in Niall's bathroom. For the mess you're in," Harry moves towards the door.  
  
"That wasn't your fault."  
  
"I know it wasn't."  
  
They stare each other down, remembering their equality in it, the instant connection and heat that's always been there, the storm they create.  
  
"Thank you," Zayn holds up the envelope. "For this."  
  
Harry leans against the door frame for a minute, thinking. He pulls at his bottom lip with his long fingers, like he's contemplating the meaning of the universe, wondering about the point of it all. Zayn's seen Harry look like this before, when Harry needed to psych himself up before a test, or get brave before his grandma's funeral, or leave Zayn for a long weekend trip. It's the face Harry wears when he wishes he could be stronger, when he's actively trying to be.  
  
Harry slowly brings his eyes up again and their eyes lock. Harry sniffs and lets it out, the tear he's been holding. Zayn almost has to close his eyes as Harry hurries to wipe it away.  
  
"Nobody finds their soul mate when they're ten," Harry shrugs a shoulder. "I mean, where's the fun in that, right?"  
  
Harry backs into the hallway and then he's gone.

  
  
_________

  
It’s all a blur after Harry leaves. If Zayn thought about it harder, he’d realize that it’s a lot like when Harry left the first time.  
  
The fight on Harry’s porch, back at the tail end of their last summer, their first summer as a married couple, Zayn walked away first. Harry shoved him off the porch and yelled at him, called him selfish as Zayn clutched the last-minute admission letter in his hand. He called Zayn a liar, an asshole. And Zayn couldn’t listen, so he ran home as fast as he could, before crying in his mom’s kitchen like a child with a skinned knee.  
  
But it was Harry who left first. Zayn woke up the next morning with that Post-It stuck to his forehead, the one with _I’ll never forgive you_ , and even though it pained him to return to the scene of the fight, he did. He asked Gemma for Harry to come down, to figure it out, but was left with only an empty bedroom and old band posters in the trash can near Harry’s bed. Harry left for school in Wilmington a full week early, and Zayn later found out from his parents that Harry lived in his car for those days before his dorm opened.  
  
So Zayn’s not entirely unprepared to see Harry’s retreating form that night, and he’s definitely ready for it the next morning when he wakes up and hears that Harry left town with Niall for the weekend. Doniya tells him with sad eyes, that she saw Harry and he casually mentioned it.  
  
Harry’s always been the same, the kind of person to leave before he’s left.  
  
It’s a blur when Zayn packs and says goodbye to his family. The car ride, the security line at the airport, the flight itself. It all happens in real time, in front of Zayn’s eyes, and yet it still feels like someone else is carrying out the actions for him. He hopes, as he steps off the plane at JFK, that he was polite to the flight attendants. He honestly can’t remember speaking to any of them at all.  
  
But then it all slows down as he climbs the stairs to their walk-up, his bag heavy in his arms, as he realizes he’ll be seeing Louis again. He’s back home, in bustling Brooklyn where he’s more solemn and quiet, and heading towards the apartment he’s truly come to love. He’s unsure of how to ready himself, if it’ll be a drag-out fight not unlike what Zayn’s experienced with Harry, or if it’ll be quieter than that.  
  
Louis’s reading in their bedroom. The girls aren’t around and Zayn is sincerely glad, not quite ready for their assessing eyes and disappointed tones. He’s a cheater, he deserves it, but it would be too much too soon.  
  
Zayn sets his bag down and stares at Louis kicked back on the bed, bare ankles crossed. He wills Louis to give him something to go on. And since Louis is Louis, and always keeps Zayn guessing, all he does is set his iPad on his lap and cross his hands over it. He stares back at Zayn, all big eyes and wet lips.  
  
“Hey,” Zayn slowly sits on the bed.  
  
“Hi.”  
  
“How are you?” Zayn reaches a hand out, to touch Louis’s ankle. “Are you okay?”  
  
Louis cocks his head, like when he asked if Zayn slept with Harry, and stares. His face, still so blank and empty of emotion, scares Zayn. He hates a world without a boisterous and happy Louis. It doesn’t feel right.  
  
“You’re still wearing your ring,” Louis says instead, nodding to Zayn’s left hand.  
  
“Of course I am.”  
  
“So you still plan on being engaged? You still want to marry me?”  
  
“I want everything you want.”  
  
“That doesn’t answer my question.”  
  
Zayn reaches for his bag with numb fingers and pulls the envelope from the side pocket. It’s all there, Zayn made sure of it. Every page that needs a signature or initial has it. Harry was thorough, made sure it was all legible, and did as Zayn asked.  
  
“He signed. It’s done. It’s all done now,” Zayn holds it up as proof. “See? It’s okay now.”  
  
Louis actually reaches for Zayn then, to place his palm against Zayn’s cheek. He looks sad. He looks disappointed. This was a test and Zayn isn’t passing. He feels like a fish out of water, flailing on an old dock, unsure how to make it out alive.  
  
“No, look,” Zayn flails, moving up the bed to sit besides Louis fully. “It’s all okay now. I have the papers and I’ll file them. I'll go take them to the lawyer right now. I made a mistake, I’m so sorry. I was stupid and… I was just so stupid before. But it’s okay now, see?”  
  
“Zayn.”  
  
“No, look at them. They’re all signed, see?” Zayn tries again, on the brink now, arms a mess as he rips the envelope open and sifts through the pages. His heart rate has accelerated to a dangerous degree, like he’s just run up about a thousand steps.  
  
Zayn needs Louis to understand. If Harry left again, if Zayn flew back to New York, if Louis is still in their bed, it’s plain as day. This is what is supposed to happen, this is Zayn’s destiny. Harry was right; you don’t find your soul mate at ten. You find the person who makes sense for you, when you’re ready for it, when they give you a ring and you say yes. This is what Zayn’s supposed to do. This is New York, this is New York Zayn making a choice, and Louis needs to see it.  
  
Louis tries to settle him, tries to grab his wrists to keep him still. But Zayn just thrusts the papers at Louis harder, to prove it, to show him.  
  
“I’m sorry, Lou. I’m sorry I hurt you. I didn’t mean for any of it to happen, I swear. I should’ve told you the truth. But it’s okay, see? They’re all signed. It’s done now.”  
  
Louis sighs and shakes his head. Zayn feels like it’s the sixth grade all over again, when Mr. Sinclair had to tell Zayn he didn’t meet the requirement for junior high’s accelerated program. He said it with such sad eyes, like it couldn’t be reversed. Zayn showed him though, he showed everyone, by working extra hard that summer. He worked feverishly, had Harry help him with flash cards, and took the test again in August. He passed with flying colors then, and he can right his wrongs now. He _can._  
  
“Zayn,” Louis grabs at the papers to stack them again. “You still don’t get it, do you?”  
  
“Don’t get what?”  
  
“It’s not done,” Louis hands the papers back. “You’re right. Harry signed everything, he signed them all.”  
  
“I know,” Zayn grits his teeth. He’s been trying to say that, to fix it.  
  
“But _you_ didn’t.”  
  
Zayn’s mouth falls open slightly, at a loss for words. He grips the pages in his hands, the ones with highlighted portions where the lawyer made sure to annotate who signs where. They’re all out of order now, but Zayn realizes Louis is right. There are blank sections all across them, with red X marks for Zayn to sign his name, places to initial and date and stamp. Blank and waiting for him.  
  
“But I…”  
  
“It’s not done, babe. You’re not divorced and you haven’t signed. You’ve never signed, see?” Louis shrugs, defeated.  
  
“But – ”  
  
Louis shakes his head again and gestures to the corner of their bedroom. Zayn follows his eye line and finally takes in the two massive packed bags, the three boxes stacked next to them, Louis’s favorite jacket sitting on top of the pile. The photo frames next to their bed and on their dresser are gone. The pile of laundry they always leave in the closet is nonexistent.  
  
“I won’t marry someone who doesn’t want to marry me,” Louis nods, his eyes fierce.  
  
Zayn hangs his head then, because he deserves this. And he owes it to Louis to end it his way, on his time, with as many words as he wants. Louis, so in control of the emotions he hands out, needs this to be contained. He needs the final upper hand, which Zayn gives him.  
  
Louis sniffs, just once, to keep his cool.  
  
“I told you, remember? I said I wouldn’t chase after you. And what did I fucking do, I chased you to Virginia, because it felt wrong, you seemed off. I chased you like an asshole. I saw you in that place, a place I certainly don’t belong, with someone else.”  
  
Zayn feels himself clenching a fist around his divorce papers.  
  
“I wasn’t even as pissed as I should’ve been,” Louis shrugs, keeping his quiet anger hidden. “It was really shitty and heartless of you, to cheat on me. I know that. But I think if I were really as in love with you as I said I was, I’d have punched him or something.”  
  
“You can punch _me_. If you want to,” Zayn grabs for Louis’s wrist in his other hand.  
  
“I might, one day. If I see you walking down the street,” Louis smiles sadly. “I might deck you good.”  
  
“I’ll let you,” Zayn sniffs.  
  
“I know you will. And I’m sure you’ll kick yourself every day for letting this ass go.”  
  
Zayn can’t help but laugh, because Louis is absolutely right. Zayn ends up shoving the papers off his lap and to the floor. He lays his head down, his cheek against Louis’s thigh, and breathes through it. Louis rubs his hair for a while, the sound of rustling leaves and groups of people walking below their window the only sounds surrounding them.  
  
Eventually Zayn has to say it.  
  
“I didn’t know the feelings never went away, I swear. I didn’t know until right now.”  
  
“I believe you.”  
  
Zayn’s not sure if Louis actually does believe him. But it’s the truth, an ugly truth that makes him sound like an asshole all over again.  
  
Eventually Louis shifts his weight to move away, to get out of the apartment and away from Zayn entirely. He leans forward right as Zayn shuts his eyes to wordlessly remove the ring Louis gave him only a few short weeks ago and holds it up. Louis fumbles for it, with a rushed hand, and then leaves Zayn be.  
  
Zayn says sorry about a million more times an hour later, when Stan comes over to help Louis move his stuff to his new grown up apartment. Louis hugs him for a few seconds, but he recoils from it, from Zayn’s touch, and Zayn can’t blame him.  
  
Zayn can’t blame anyone but himself.

  
  
_________

  
After living in New York City for as long as he has, Zayn knows a thing or two about cleanses. It’s hard to have a conversation the week or two after Thanksgiving or New Years, and hear much of anything else. It’s like people collectively decide all at once that the insurgence of all that jovial spirit, the pounds of food and drink during these times of celebration, call for a literal cleanse. Co-workers swap apps for their personal cleanses; neighbors share detoxing tea remedies; AA meetings suddenly fill to the brim.  
  
Within his immediate sphere, Zayn’s seen all kinds of ways to go about it. Steph starts juicing for every meal, Antonia swears all she wants is kale anyways, Liam goes to the therapist he had in high school, just to check in. Louis used to drink green tea for hours at a time, to help his liver after weekend binges in Manhattan, and then call his mom every hour on the hour, just to hear her voice. Zayn’s even done it himself, after trips here and there to Cape Code with Louis’s acting friends. He would get back to their apartment and swear up and down that he’d never drink or smoke weed again. He’d swallow vitamins for days, sure that his system needed to rejuvenate, to cure itself, to right the wrongs Zayn so readily inflicted.  
  
Zayn’s seen it happen before, that through-line mentality of wanting to fix oneself. So that’s how he spends the next month, after Louis moves out. He officially goes on a cold-turkey detox.  
  
Zayn never saw himself as the kind of man to cheat. He certainly never saw himself as the kind of man to have both a divorce and a broken engagement by the time he was 27, so really, life has been full of surprises. It’s just that once a person understands the wrongs they’ve done to not just themselves, but to those around them, they need to find and fix the broken pieces. Immediately.  
  
Luckily Zayn doesn’t have to travel far to locate his bent and broken pieces. He carries them all, right there in his chest, the hurt he’s caused. It’s taken nine years and a stack of divorce papers to realize that yeah, even though he and Harry went their separate ways because of outside circumstances, Zayn never asked Harry to come with him. He didn’t call or write him, because of stubbornness and pride. He let himself get swept up in a relationship with someone else, someone who deserved better, who ended up getting hurt as well.  
  
Zayn detoxes his thoughts over the next few weeks, of everything related to Harry and Louis. He works, he draws until his hand aches, he finally gets Steph and Antonia to forgive him for hurting their friend, he works some more, and he sleeps. He tosses the last of his weed, deciding that any sort of downer would just make him feel too much, or worse, make him text certain men in his phone. He talks to his family more than he has in years and texts Niall regularly, to thank him and wish him well.  
  
Zayn Malik detoxes. He meditates. He even prays some nights. He sends his mom flowers, he calls Waliyha’s new boyfriend because he wants to check the kid out, and he sings Blues Traveler songs in the shower.  
  
Because sometimes good people make bad decisions. It doesn’t take a lifetime to course correct, but it doesn’t take a day either.  
  
It takes time. So Zayn uses it to be better.

  
  
_________

  
“So I can tell you now, or I can tell you now,” Doniya sighs over the phone. Zayn sits in their hot as hell living room, in a nothing but a pair of low-slung shorts and a red headband in his hair.  
  
He hitches the phone up his shoulder slightly, as he watches Steph paint his toenails. It was part of the deal, of getting back in their good graces. The girls are allowed to do anything and everything to him, for their own amusement when they’re bored and too broke to go do anything substantial. He’s also required to taste test even more of their dessert concoctions, which is why he has to lean awkwardly to lick the frosting from his arm. Antonia commented that for all they care, Zayn could end up a fat homebody, wearing their lipstick for the rest of his life. As it is, he likes the colors they choose for his makeup and toenails, he rather likes frosting, and it makes him feel like he’s a kid again, getting gussied up by a houseful of women. So honestly, things could be worse.  
  
It’s just nice to know that they really are his friends, through thick and thin, even when he royally fucks up. They’re there when he needs them most, like when he feels especially bad for everything, when he gets the urge to text Louis how sorry he is all over again, they stop him and remind him that Louis went on a detox of his own. They even let him nap with them sometimes, so again, things could definitely be worse.  
  
“Well shit,” Zayn licks at his wrist then, to get the chocolate before he accidentally wipes it on the couch. “Now I need to hear it.”  
  
“Hello Doniya,” Antonia calls out from their bedroom. “Tell your brother to let me dye his hair, yeah?”  
  
“Absolutely not,” Zayn shakes his head, yelling back to her. “I draw the line at permanent or semi-permanent maiming.”  
  
Doniya laughs like she used to when Zayn would “absolutely not” one of her ideas. He can hear another one of his sisters laughing in the background, Waliyha most likely, listening in on the conversation. They used to torture him together, like the time they tied him to a chair, to put fake butterfly tattoos on any bit of skin showing. His fifth grade school photo is proof; he had pieces of butterfly wings sticking out of the collar of his shirt, much to their mom’s horror. Zayn scowls, but remembers that she has news.  
  
“You were saying?” he presses on.  
  
“So… Harry’s moving again,” she admits sadly.  
  
“Well, that’s great for him.”  
  
“Yeah, I guess. I just… after you left, he came by sometimes. He’d stop over to the house and see mom. To talk.”  
  
Steph must be able to hear Doniya through the phone. She stops applying the blue polish to his big toe and instead sits up, to look at him with sad eyes. After their anger died down over Louis being cheated on, and them losing a good friend and roommate, Zayn told them everything. He explained his past, the significance of Harry, and how it ended, both times. Steph and Antonia had their fair share of ups and downs with exes before they met each other, so maybe they both can relate to the unrelenting heartbreak Zayn’s had to squash down.  
  
“Why are you telling me this?” Zayn pinches the bridge of his nose. His detox was supposed to stop all the feelings Doniya seems hell bent on bringing to the surface. It was supposed to remind him how to be calm and complacent Zayn, the version of himself that New York inexplicably brought out.  
  
“Because I spent the last nine years not telling you about Harry, and look where it’s gotten us.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Zayn, look… I think you needed time, or like, maybe you needed to get it through your brain that you’re a good person, regardless of the shit you pulled… But seriously, why are you still pretending like this isn’t going to end the way it is?”  
  
Steph has to bite her lips to keep from laughing, so Zayn uses his un-polished foot to kick her. She scurries to her bedroom door, shoving Antonia back into their room with a smile.  
  
Alone now, Zayn sits up.  
  
“D, what are you saying. Spell it out.”  
  
“You really are fucking dense, aren’t you,” Doniya huffs, probably with a hand on her hip, or pacing her bedroom. “You’ve been in love with Harry Styles since the day you met him.”  
  
Zayn stays silent.  
  
“You both are stubborn as hell, two stupid idiots who think they’re right all the time. You should’ve told him about NYU, he shouldn’t have been such a big baby about it, and you should’ve made it work.”  
  
“Great, thank you for this,” Zayn stands up to pace himself now. “I sure do love hearing about the shit I’ve done wrong.”  
  
“Well someone needs to say it!” Waliyha calls from far away, when Doniya shushes her.  
  
“So what, I’m supposed to call him up and say we fucked up? And we should fix it? Now, after all this time?”  
  
“Zayn, have you filed the paperwork he signed?”  
  
Zayn’s thrown off by that. He never expected Doniya to bring it up, because he doesn’t remember telling her Harry signed them to begin with. And then he remembers how big of a mouth Harry has, and how he’s probably been spilling all their business to the Malik women for weeks. Zayn almost kicks the stove in frustration.  
  
“Not technically, no,” he says instead, stopping in his tracks.  
  
“And have you wondered _why?_ ”  
  
Zayn can only blink then, contemplating his entire fucking life, forgetting that Doniya can’t see his face.  
  
In the few weeks since Zayn’s been back in New York, after the mental blackout he self-imposed when it came to all things men-related, Zayn hadn’t considered that. After Louis left that day, Zayn shuffled the papers into a pile and resolutely shoved them under the bed, where they’ve collected dust ever since. Even when he grabbed coffee with Liam near his lawyer’s office at Columbus and 78th, he didn’t even think about bringing them along.  
  
He’s not sure what makes him look to the small bulletin board near the front door, the one with their work schedules, emergency numbers, and key rings. He’s not sure why he strides over to it, to smack a finger to the month of June on the cat calendar Steph insists on.  
  
But it’s right there, staring him in the face. June 12th. It’s coming up.  
  
Zayn blinks one more time and tells his sisters he has to go. He doesn’t look away from the date of his wedding anniversary until Antonia nudges him with her elbow and hands him her laptop, a smirk dancing on her lips.

  
  
_________

  
_Harry strides into the bedroom with a t-shirt slung over his shoulder, sweating up a storm. He shuffles to the closet, to rifle through it for some clean clothes after his run, his long, sweaty back in full view as Zayn watches from behind his laptop on the bed. Harry hums some song, something upbeat and nice, and Zayn can’t help but smile._  
  
_He also has to remind himself that this isn’t Harry’s room anymore. It’s their room, their bed, here at Anne’s house, since they’re married now. He looks down to the simple silver band on his finger and almost brings it to his lips. Sometimes he finds himself biting at the metal, just to see how it feels between his teeth._  
  
_Harry turns around finally, kicking off his running shoes, grabbing helplessly at each sock, stumbling, knocking over the pile of unopened mail Zayn’s dad dropped off earlier. Zayn ignores it, figures he’ll open the random letters tomorrow, as he watches Harry with his head cocked. Harry’s cheeks redden as he straightens up._  
  
_“What are you up to?” Harry smiles, grabbing for his towel._  
  
_“Just looking up where we’ll be living,” Zayn shrugs, still smiling, as the webpage featuring the dorm layouts and interactive walk-through stare him in the face._  
  
_Sometimes he can’t believe this is how they get to live now, uninhibited and open. There’s no question what they get up to in this bedroom, there’s no hiding it from their families. Once the shock died down and Anne agreed to let them stay at the house until they went off to school, they’ve been living this way, like homebodies and newlyweds. And in only another week or so, they’ll be in North Carolina at school, like real grown men in their own home._  
  
_“Some place good, I hope,” Harry scratches his chest._  
  
_“The dorms for married couples are a little farther away than the normal dorms,” Zayn sits up further. “But they look okay. I think we can have some parties even.”_  
  
_“Oh, so we’ll be_ those _guys,” Harry winks, moving towards the bathroom. “The weird married guys who throw raging parties and suck each other off when no one’s looking.”_  
  
_“We’re sucking each other off?” Zayn laughs, imagining the college fantasy, the one Zayn never thought in a million years would be his._  
  
_Harry thinks better of the shower and instead hops onto the bed, shoving Zayn’s laptop away. He settles right there in Zayn’s lap and tugs on his hair, biting his lip. He must be envisioning college too, the way his eyes widen. Zayn can feel Harry’s identical wedding ring against his neck, and it warms him all over again._  
  
_“We sure are,” Harry nods. “Party’s going on and everything. Drunk girls in our kitchen, a couple of guys winning beer pong against all our new best friends.”_  
  
_“And we’re off in our bedroom, giving blowjobs then.”_  
  
_“You look beautiful on your knees.”_  
  
_“You’re alright,” Zayn scrunches his nose, as Harry slaps his chest playfully._  
  
_“Unless you want me to fuck you,” Harry leans in close, the sweat and scent of boy clinging to his neck and shoulders. “I can fuck you while everyone has a blast at our place, just on the other side of the bedroom wall.”_  
  
_“Sounds nice,” Zayn bites Harry’s ear._  
  
_“You like when I fuck you, don’t you, babe. Like when I pull your ass against my mouth, like when I lick you and tease a bit first.”_  
  
_Zayn nods, because he definitely does. They’ve been having sex for a while now, and Harry still finds new and interesting ways to hitch Zayn’s breath. His hands slip towards the elastic of Harry’s running shorts. He never thought he’d find it sexy, the way Harry looks and acts right after a work out, but he has yet to let Harry get to the shower before they do this dance. Not since they’ve been married._  
  
_“I’ll do that then,” Harry runs his tongue up Zayn’s neck, too slow, drawing a hiss from Zayn’s mouth._  
  
_“Okay,” Zayn brings a hang to Harry’s clothed dick, ready now._  
  
_But Harry jumps off him with a wicked smile and grabs his towel again. He wiggles his ass slightly, as he winks and heads towards the bathroom._  
  
_“Make sure we have good parking,” he nods to Zayn’s laptop._  
  
_“You’re a cock tease.”_  
  
_“You married me, babe. No use complaining now.”_  
  
_“I’ll be complaining about you ‘til the day I die, more like.”_  
  
_Harry laughs and slams the bathroom door shut._  
  
_“I take that as a compliment,” Harry yells from behind the wood, with another loud laugh._  
  
_Zayn rolls his eyes as the water starts to rush, the old pipes creaking behind their headboard. But Harry made a good point, because Zayn did forget to look into parking at their new place. So he pulls his laptop closer and puts a palm to his erection. For now._  
  
_Once Harry’s done, he’ll probably walk out naked and dripping wet. He’ll turn around and let Zayn eye him, all broad shoulders and expansive back, down his waist, over his hips and ass, to his thighs quivering slightly from a strenuous run. And then he’ll flip Zayn over onto his stomach and kiss down his spine, before getting to the main event._  
  
_Afterwards, they’ll talk about school and how excited they are. Zayn will suck a mark into Harry’s chest because he likes to see the red flush against Harry’s pale skin. Harry will smack him and then secretly press a finger to it as they go to sleep in a few hours._  
  
_That’s what Harry will do, after his shower. He’ll start their nightly routine, say something like “and they say marriage ruins a good sex life,” and then fuck Zayn again in the morning._  
  
_And because Zayn knows his husband better than he’s ever known anyone, that’s exactly what they do._

  
  
_________

  
Zayn doesn’t watch too many romantic comedies these days, and honestly, he never really has. But if the next few hours were part a movie, he’s pretty sure it’d be the big coda where the main character “figures it out.” Maybe him booking a flight home, frantically packing, and kissing the girls good bye would all be part of a montage with an uplifting song set over it.  
  
The cab driver even listens to that ridiculous Andy Grammer song on Pandora, right as they head north towards the expressway. If Zayn could process it, he’d probably laugh.  
  
But it’s hard for Zayn to focus on much else, as the borough flies past his window on the way to LaGuardia. He barely takes Brooklyn in, the clusters of people laughing on street corners, the scent of street meat lingering from the city, post-college grads bumbling out of bars at every turn. Zayn’s not sure if he’ll be living here much longer, if all goes according to the ridiculous plan he’s concocted, so he really should be appreciating it more.  
  
It’s just now that Zayn has it there on the tip of his tongue, everything he wants to say, he can’t see anything beyond Harry’s face. Once Doniya begged the question about Zayn never filing the papers, once he smacked himself across the face when he saw his anniversary on the calendar yet again, it suddenly became very clear.  
  
Zayn is older and wiser now. He’s not the 18-year-old idiot who let an argument dictate the rest of his life. He’s not the man who will allow himself to wallow in self-imposed misery, when the love of his life is only a plane ride away. Everything he’s ever wanted, every dream he’s had, has come true. He got into NYU; he flourished there, graduated with honors, and has an amazing job with an amazing boss who has graciously let him take even more time off. But none of it has been what he needed deep down, not with Louis, and not without Harry.  
  
Zayn recognized it. He finally understood as he stared at his wedding anniversary and thought about Harry sitting at his mom’s kitchen table, miserable with a cup of tea between his palms. He’s never fallen out of love with Harry, he’s never moved on, and he probably knew it the second they kissed again in Niall’s bathroom.  
  
Zayn should’ve asked Harry to come with him to New York. He should’ve tried to make it work even if Harry went to Wilmington. He made the mistake of letting Harry push him away, to leave before he was left, and even if it wasn’t clear before, it’s clear now. He hopped a red-eye to New York a long time ago and has spent every day since then trying to find his way back.  
  
Back to Harry. Back home.

  
  
_________

  
The cab drops him off at the end of Harry’s driveway. Zayn almost went to see his parents, but he quickly decided not to wait another second and cut out the middleman. Zayn’s too impatient when it comes to Harry, and he’s definitely more emotionally driven when back in Hammond. He can’t believe he forgot.  
  
Zayn practically throws his backpack and carry-on to the porch, as he scrambles up the steps in his heavy boots.  
  
“Harry Styles,” Zayn yells as loud as he can, like he used to when he was ten and asking if Harry could come out to play. His fists pound at the old wooden door, eyes in slits as he tries to see through the thin white curtain over the glass.  
  
Bruce doesn’t bark as Zayn yells louder. There isn’t a TV or radio playing. It’s too quiet, all the windows are closed up. If Zayn didn’t know any better, it’s not the first week of June, but the last week of November, when the winds howl and every house along the lake shuts their doors. Hammond never gets too bad in the winter, but it tends to get softer, more closed off once the leaves have changed and the boats get roped in for the winter. It doesn’t sit right with Zayn, the energy surrounding Harry’s house.  
  
Zayn stands back from the door, with his hands on his hips, to have a think. Doniya said Harry was about to move again, to jet off to some new place. Maybe he already did. Maybe he left without a backwards glance and Zayn’s missed it.  
  
But then Zayn remembers the end of their last summer, how for three Saturdays in a row, Harry took the boat out to the center of the lake. He said it was to fish, but Zayn figured it was Harry’s way of settling himself, getting his head straight, before the big life change known as college. The lake curves in such a way that from Harry’s small dock, the main bowl of the lake isn’t visible beyond the trees and marsh, so Zayn couldn’t even watch him or keep him in his sight.  
  
It annoyed Zayn then and it annoys Zayn now.  
  
Zayn stomps back down the stairs and jogs through the sloping lawn of Harry’s yard, to the dock that leads out towards murky water. The wood looks as old as ever, the railing dipping slightly on either side of it. Anne had one lamp put in at the very end, in case Harry ever needed a light when making his way home. Zayn leans against the post and waits, his arms crossed, face in a scowl. It’s just like Harry to make him wait even longer. Not even the calming sounds of the water lapping against the dock help in that moment. Zayn has the rest of his life planned out, and he’d very much like to start living it.  
  
It takes another hour, right as the sun makes its way towards the horizon, before Zayn hears the motor. Another few minutes and then there he is, Harry and Bruce in his boat, coming around the bend, a red cooler between his legs. The old aluminum fishing boat slices through the water, Harry’s wild hair flapping in the wind as he holds an arm behind himself to steer. Zayn, never a big fan of the water, only ever went on the boat with Harry a few times. Harry liked to say that the side-by-side bucket seats were tailor made for them. “You gotta distribute the weight, babe. Every boat works best with two people.” He used to beg Zayn to go out on the water with him, but Zayn hardly ever did.  
  
Harry must’ve seen Zayn right when Zayn saw him, as he came around the trees. But Zayn can’t see his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, and he sincerely wishes he could. It’d be nice to see Harry’s eyes widen. Harry looks like an idiot when his eyes get all big and bug-eyed, something Zayn always loved.  
  
But Zayn shakes his head and tells himself to focus, as he pushes off the lamppost and waits for Harry to dock. Harry doesn’t look at him too closely, he doesn’t say a word, as the engine putters still. Harry glides parallel to the dock, easy as anything, and stands up on uneven feet to tether it to the wood.  
  
Bruce uses this time to propel his body up and off the boat, in a dolphin dive, to get to Zayn, as Harry packs up his pole and tackle. Bruce whines he’s so happy to see Zayn, and Zayn almost cries with him. He pats Bruce’s head, scratches at his ears, and gets slobber on his shoe. But Bruce must know to sit still, to be quiet, because he then quickly sits there at Zayn’s side, all stoic and proud, to stare at Harry, too.  
  
“Well?” Harry speaks first, finally turning towards Zayn. He pushes his sunglasses up onto his head and puts a foot on the dock, hands on his hips.  
  
It’s a funny thing, how they both stand when ready for an argument. Zayn almost laughs at it, the way they both get fighting stances ready, even after their last interaction left them quiet and resigned. The last time they spoke, it was an ending, a period, a clear-cut line in the sand. They both gave up the fight and they both admitted to being wrong.  
  
So if they were normal people, this wouldn’t look as combative as it does, them standing there, already annoyed.  
  
“What do you mean, well?” Zayn scoffs.  
  
“Seems the only time I see your face is when I did something to piss you off, or you did something like a jackass to piss me off. So which is it? I don’t have all day.”  
  
Harry grabs the cooler and steps up off the boat. He starts to walk past Zayn, but Zayn won’t let him run, so he grabs his arm and holds tight.  
  
“Can you sit still for a minute? Jesus.”  
  
“What do you want from me, Zayn? Why are you here?” Harry turns to him, dropping the cooler with harsh limbs, eyes on fire.  
  
“I came to yell, you idiot.”  
  
“Perfect!” Harry shoves Zayn away, crossing his arms. “Lovely! I so do enjoy being yelled at, by you, of all people.”  
  
Zayn rolls his eyes and sighs. Of course this is going to be difficult. Their lives used to be so easy, when they were kids running around Zayn’s yard. They used sticks as light sabers, would put bugs in Waliyha’s hair for fun, and sneaked Gemma’s training bras into the freezer just to hear her scream. Even as teenagers, once they finally kissed and figured it out, they had an effortless relationship. In between weeks of harmony, their arguments didn’t happen often, and even though they screamed and shoved, they always made up. It was like clockwork. This right now, the end of their nine-year long fight, should be easier.  
  
“I’m mad at you,” Zayn levels himself, as the sun begins to set.  
  
“What else is new?”  
  
“You signed the papers, Harry,” Zayn smacks his arm. Harry, affronted, rubs at the skin of his bicep and looks murderous.  
  
“You practically forced me to.”  
  
“Since when are you a pushover? Your stubborn ass hasn’t followed an instruction a day in your life, and you choose to start now? What were you thinking?”  
  
Harry takes a step back, still holding his arm, confused. He licks his lips, eyes darting across Zayn’s stern face, searching.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You signed! You let me serve you those fucking annulment papers. You actually did it. You let me leave for New York again! Why did you let me do that?”  
  
They stare at each other long and hard, like they did before their second first kiss in Zayn’s bed. Their eyes go from angry to annoyed to understanding, all at once. Harry catches on now. He must see where they’re headed, that this fight mind end like all their best fights: with them holding hands until they’re over it entirely.  
  
Harry can never make anything easy, though. He never has. So he slaps Zayn’s arm now, a little harder.  
  
“Oh, so it’s all my fault then? You didn’t lie about New York, it was me who let you go! You didn’t ask for our marriage to end, I signed my name so it’s all on me!” Harry smacks Zayn again, as Zayn hisses.  
  
Zayn smacks at Harry’s stomach with the back of his hand, more playful now.  
  
“I said I was sorry for all that!” Zayn tries to hold his smile in. “Didn’t I say that, in my room? Jesus, you can never let me catch a break, can you.”  
  
Harry almost laughs, Zayn can tell. He sees the telltale smirk about to crawl up Harry’s face, slow as molasses, because so many of Harry’s movements crawl. His body even curls into it, his arms easing up, his back broadening. It’s Harry about to let it all go, the tension and anger he’s been storing between his shoulder blades. But then just as fast, Zayn sees Harry’s face fall. He sees the worry and apprehension, like he did when Zayn cornered him on his mom’s porch with an NYU letter clutched between his fingers.  
  
Harry bites his lip and steps back slightly.  
  
“Zayn, why are you here,” he asks, serious now. They’re not playing a game anymore, this isn’t some petty argument to brush away and fuck through. He needs a good answer, a real one. And Zayn knows this, because he’s known Harry since he was ten years old. He’s had this ready, on the tip of his tongue, since he smacked at a cat calendar by his front door.  
  
Zayn smiles, a soft one, and grabs for Harry’s hand. He’s always so warm, his skin both soft and hard. He links their fingers, as both of them watch the movement, the muscle memory they can practically taste.  
  
“Guess I should’ve said this first, huh,” Zayn looks up, smiling. He takes a breath and thinks of his sisters. “We fucked up. We should fix it. Even now, after all this time.”  
  
Harry blinks, stares at Zayn, and tightens his hold on Zayn’s hand.  
  
“I’m not engaged anymore,” Zayn shrugs. “I think even if Louis hadn’t of ended it, even if he decided to forgive me, and wanted to try… I would’ve stopped it. I thought it was what I wanted, I think, because I thought I’d never have you again. I thought I was supposed to grow up and be with someone else. But that’s bullshit. It wasn’t right.”  
  
“It wasn’t?”  
  
“Nope,” Zayn steps closer to feel Harry’s body heat. “It wasn’t with you. And even if you signed your stupid name… I never filed them. I never wanted to.”  
  
“So we’re still married?” Harry finally smiles, just a small one, mouth quirked up on one side.  
  
“Ball and chain, babe. That’s me,” Zayn finally grabs for Harry’s hips, their entire bodies touching. It’s a lot like in Niall’s bathroom, flush against each other. Harry’s had an inch on Zayn since high school, and he didn’t realize he missed being the one to look up until that moment.  
  
Harry must be thinking the same thing, as he grips Zayn’s waist, thumbs digging into his skin. He tilts his face down, finally. It’s like after all this time, they both decide to fix it.  
  
That kiss, the one to end the fight and begin their real lives, is their best one yet.

  
  
_________

  
Never patient enough to let things organically unfold, it’s like they both resolve to make the night their own. Three times.  
  
The thing about Harry and Zayn is that they challenge each other in crazy ways, read each other with their fingertips like braille, and know without a doubt how to push at just the right time.  
  
The first time, it’s a mishmash of fast and slow. They kiss on the dock for what feels like hours, enveloped, close, their lips red and bruised by the end of it. Bruce looks up at them passively, probably hungry after spending all day on the lake. So Harry grips Zayn’s hand and leads him to the house. They take their time and make the walk like they’re punch-drunk, Bruce bounding ahead of them.  
  
Harry scoops food into Bruce’s bowl as Zayn leans on the kitchen counter to watch. They gulp water, both a little dehydrated, and then kiss some more. It’s like high school again, standing in Harry’s mom’s kitchen before she gets off work, their toes knocking. Harry presses Zayn against the counter and grips him by the neck, holds him firmly between his fingers, and opens Zayn’s mouth just like he used to.  
  
Zayn has the thought as they kiss lazily that it’s perfect, this night they’ve started. If they lost nine years together, it’s about time they make up for it.  
  
Harry must sense it, must understand that it’s a night to use their mouths and hands again, like teenagers. He nods against Zayn. Zayn fumbles with his zipper right as Harry undoes his own, their mouths connected. Harry turns Zayn as swiftly as he can, makes him face the window, and shoves his black jeans to his knees. Zayn hears Harry spit into his palm, before working two rough fingers into him, a groan escaping his lips. Zayn bunches his shirt up in his hands against the wooden counter and drops his head. Harry knows him so well, was the first person to ever feel Zayn from the inside, the only one who knows how to do this. He knows Zayn isn’t even hard, that he doesn’t have to be, and turns his wrist.  
  
Zayn nods, as his breath quickens, the more Harry fucks into him with his fingers. Harry bites at the denim across Zayn’s shoulder, and speeds up to really stretch him. Zayn wants to be fucked so badly, he can almost taste it. But he knows that will happen eventually, that this right now is just to work them up, to get them both reaquainted. So Zayn pushes back, tries his best, even as his legs weaken further. Harry knows how Zayn likes it, so he slows his hand and crooks his fingers, runs them over his prostate like he’s petting it. Zayn sees stars as Harry milks him through it, the more he leaks pre come. Harry was the one who looked this up, the one who told Zayn how good it felt. Zayn whimpers, his fingernails practically splintering the wood of the counter top.  
  
It’s so good, it’s too good. Harry bites Zayn’s ear, keeps his pace, relentlessly moving his fingers across the spot Zayn’s never been able to enjoy on his own. Louis never did this, Zayn only ever topped when they were together, and his knees hit painfully against the cupboards, it’s been so long.  
  
“I got you,” Harry says against Zayn’s neck, working into him just right, not too fast.  
  
“I know,” Zayn babbles, his voice wavering, entire body shaking through the tremors.  
  
Harry knows Zayn won’t come from just this, knows that this stimulation could last hours with Zayn right on the edge of something. So Zayn hears it before he feels it, the slick slapping of Harry fisting himself with his other hand. Zayn clenches around Harry’s fingers, grunts as Harry loses his pace slightly. And then Harry comes across Zayn’s ass, the slow languid strings of hot jizz dripping towards Harry’s fingers.  
  
Zayn almost yells out then, when Harry juts his fingers just so, on either side of his prostate. He’s leaking all over himself, the steady stream getting on his jeans, and he needs something. He needs it so badly. He almost says Harry’s name.  
  
But Harry removes his fingers and turns Zayn around again, falling to his knees, as Zayn tries to catch his breath. Harry, with a smirk, reaches for the hair tie on his wrist and pulls his long hair back into a bun. He finally, _finally_ brings his mouth to Zayn’s hardening cock. Zayn’s entire head falls back, at the feeling of Harry’s mouth, hot and slick, throat fluttering around the head until he has to hold on. Harry doesn’t let up, he just sucks hard, hard, harder. He hums into it, like he hums to the radio without thinking about it, and Zayn melts into it further. It’s happening so fast, so fucking fast. He holds Harry's beautiful face in both hands, snaps his hips forwards, and comes so hard he sees stars again.  
  
Harry leans against Zayn’s thigh, exhausted. He breathes deep, to ease his lungs before he has to find an inhaler, and Zayn pets his cheek.  
  
They end up smiling at each other, once Harry sits back on his haunches. And then they shrug at the same time, which is just too funny, to mirror so well after all this time.  
  
Zayn falls to his knees and licks into Harry’s mouth.

  
  
_________

  
When they go at it a second time that night, it’s an hour later and they’re both uncomfortably full.  
  
Harry insisted on taking cold leftover pizza up to bed, along with a few bottles of Coke, and a plate of nachos. They lounge on the bed they shared that last summer in just their underwear and eat until Zayn’s pretty sure he could be rolled down the street like a bowling ball.  
  
“Fuck,” he groans, head falling back onto a pillow, gripping his stomach.  
  
Harry laughs at that, tossing the pizza box to the floor with a thump. They didn’t bother to turn on many lights, so the house sits dark and quiet around them. The crickets sing to each other down by the lake, there aren’t any horns honking, or any lesbians on the other side of the wall, cursing up a storm as they get off. Zayn appreciates the silence, and sort of misses the sounds of the city, in equal measure.  
  
Harry curls up against his side, his protruding belly against Zayn’s ribcage, which they both feel and chuckle at.  
  
“Are you tired?” Harry kisses Zayn’s pirate tattoo. “I know am.”  
  
“Exhausted,” Zayn sighs.  
  
“Poor Zayn, had to travel all day and then spill his guts.”  
  
“Poor Harry, sat his ass on a boat all day and then nutted all over mine,” Zayn grins, peaking an eye open to look down at Harry’s stupid expression.  
  
Harry surges forward and kisses him, tasting like sweet Coke and Harry Styles. He moves up to straddle Zayn’s thighs and holds his face between his fingers, peppering kisses across Zayn’s entire face.  
  
Zayn feels Harry hardening against his thigh, their briefs catching. Zayn’s just about to deepen the kiss, to really get a second wind for himself because he’s not quite ready to end their night. But then he remembers, so he presses a hand to Harry’s bare chest.  
  
“What?” Harry whines, grinding down against Zayn’s growing erection.  
  
“I just… I wanted to say I love you.”  
  
“I love you too,” Harry smiles, poking at Zayn’s forehead.  
  
“And that… I’m sorry, for everything. I’m sorry for not saying anything in Niall’s bathroom, for not owning up to how I felt right then. I was an asshole about the whole thing.”  
  
Harry runs his thumb across Zayn’s bottom lip as he finishes his apology, contemplating with an odd calmness to his face.  
  
“When I came over that next morning, I was going to leave you a Post-It,” he nods.  
  
Zayn remembers taking that in, the pad of Post-Its and pen in Harry’s hand. Harry walked in expecting to say hello to the Maliks, ready to leave Zayn a message, when he was bombarded with not just a coherent Zayn, but with Louis as well. He can’t imagine what that would’ve felt like, how he himself would’ve reacted.  
  
Zayn looks at Harry above him and blinks, willing him to go on.  
  
“I hadn’t exactly planned out what I was going to write, to be honest,” Harry leans down on his forearms now, to kiss at Zayn’s chest and neck. “I just knew I needed to see you, even if you were asleep.”  
  
Zayn brings a hand up to Harry’s messy hair, as Harry works his way to the other side of Zayn’s neck.  
  
“But I’m pretty sure it would’ve been ‘I love you’ or ‘please don’t leave yet,’ or even something stupid like ‘meet me at the house so we can talk, love always, your husband.’”  
  
They both smile at that. It’s definitely something Harry would say on a fucking Post-It. Harry sits back up, his face serious.  
  
“I was going to try to convince you, once we talked. I was going to tell you that it was still there, whatever this is, whatever we are. That it wasn’t over.”  
  
Zayn nods.  
  
“But then Louis was there, and I couldn’t ruin it. If it was what you wanted, I couldn’t be a dick about it.”  
  
“You’re a good man, Harry Styles,” Zayn runs his fingers up Harry’s forearms.  
  
Harry shakes his head though, at Zayn’s declaration, and his cheeks turn crimson. He sheepishly bites his lip, wears the face he used on Anne throughout their middle school years whenever he got caught sneaking down to the dock to put his feet in the water when he couldn’t sleep.  
  
“Well,” Harry admits, “sort of.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
Harry looks over his shoulder, turns his entire body towards his desk, so Zayn leans to look as well. There are boxes packed, clothes in a pile. Zayn’s reminded that Harry planned to move on to greener pastures, like he’s been doing for years. Zayn can’t help but frown.  
  
“See,” Harry continues, looking back to Zayn with a smile, “I let you go, signed everything, gave up. I thought I’d stay here, or maybe even move to be closer to mom and Gem. And then… I decided to go somewhere new. And… I always said I wanted to live in New York.”  
  
Zayn watches Harry shrug and grin like the Cheshire Cat he is, before grabbing his sides and tickling him senseless. Harry’s laughter fills the whole room when Zayn flips them over and knocks Harry’s skull against the lowest bar of the headboard. They both cry they laugh so hard.  
  
“So Mr. Wanted To Settle Down who now can hardly sit still, you were gonna come after me? Try and win me back, is that it?” Zayn smirks.  
  
Harry grabs for the bar behind him and nods, still grinning like the maniacal Joker he’s always been.  
  
“Naughty,” Zayn shakes his head, moving south, leaving wet kisses across Harry’s bellybutton, over the laurels of his hips.  
  
“Wouldn’t have been hard though, hmm? Mr. Never Filed The Papers.”  
  
“This is true,” Zayn smiles into Harry’s hip.  
  
Zayn keeps mapping Harry’s chest and stomach with his mouth, lazily just to say he can again, as they lay in their old darkened room. He has a fleeting thought, something along the lines of _I never have to be pulled back when I'm with you, not out of my thoughts, because when I'm with you, I'm all here._ It makes him smile into Harry's skin even harder.

Soon enough, they begin to reminisce about that last summer. Now that hindsight is 20/20 and they both know this is happening again, they can appreciate those few months of marital bliss.  
  
Harry reminds Zayn though, that Anne about disowned both of them, when Harry suggested staying in his bedroom until school started up. She was horrified at having the two boys actually living together, doing what people do when they’re married, “Biblically.” Zayn bites at Harry’s nipple as he laughs, to make Harry laugh harder.  
  
There was the time they got a restaurant full of people to applaud them, when they went to the boardwalk in Jersey for a weekend. They held up their hands, showed off their new wedding bands, and had a room full of guidos cheering them on. Some meathead actually slapped Harry’s ass and nodded to Zayn with a wink, before grabbing his equally massive boyfriend’s sausage fingers on his way out of the eatery.  
  
The first time Zayn called Harry his husband in a real situation was when they were pulled over on their way home that weekend. Since it’s illegal to be on the phone while driving, especially in Jersey, Zayn had Harry answer his phone when Yaser called. Yaser rambled about something neither of them can remember now, but apparently it sent Harry into a tailspin. They had a friendly argument, Zayn yelled out his opinion, nothing exciting.  
  
But then they saw the red and blue flashing lights, heard the siren, and about pissed their pants. Harry does distinctly remember telling Yaser, in so few words, that they were about to be arrested, which did _not_ go over well.  
  
The officer asked for Zayn’s license and registration, which Zayn had to tell Harry to grab. Harry, a nervous wreck, couldn’t find it, he yelled at Zayn to stop yelling at him, they bickered like kids.  
  
“Sorry, sir,” Zayn said through gritted teeth, handing his license over. “My husband is an idiot and was the one distracting me.”  
  
“I was not distracting you, I was talking to your dad and you couldn’t shut up!”  
  
“Harry, I swear to God,” Zayn threw him an angry look, before carrying on with the traffic stop.  
  
In the end, he wasn’t speeding and only swerved a little from laughter. He was let off with a warning and a polite wave, before he turned to Harry to continue their argument. Instead, Harry leaned over the center console and pulled Zayn’s face against his. They both got emotional at the same time, after they realized what Zayn said. They held hands the rest of the way home and it turned out to be a pretty nice drive, after that.  
  
That is, until Yaser called back and threatened to murder them both, either by drowning them in the lake or burying them alive.  
  
“He was so pissed,” Harry laughs now, remembering Yaser’s expression when they pulled up to the house hours later.  
  
“Yeah, but it was worth it,” Zayn tilts his head up to kiss the smile off Harry’s mouth. “I think ‘husband’ sounded nice. Then and now.”  
  
“So we’re officially husbands again? For real?”  
  
“If you’ll have me.”  
  
“I’ll have you,” Harry kisses Zayn.  
  
“In New York?” Zayn wonders, yawning, the one thing still on his mind. When he was in the cab on the way to the airport, he had decided: wherever Harry wanted to run off to, Zayn would follow. If Harry settles in fucking Antarctica, Zayn will just suck it up and buy a thicker coat. If Brooklyn isn’t in the cards this time around, so be it. Home isn’t a place, home is Harry Styles.  
  
“Is that where you want to be?” Harry kisses him again.  
  
But Zayn can’t help but think about it. He really weighs it in his mind. New York has been part of Zayn for his entire adult life. It’s the place he’s grown up, the place he ran to, and then stayed in. Zayn loves his job of course, and he knows he’s different there, maybe more quiet and reserved than he is in his hometown. But Zayn realizes now, looking at Harry’s wide eyes that it may be because he’s always been in New York without Harry. Harry brings out the crazy side of Zayn, the person who can argue in the presence of a cop, the kind of guy who has a literal fighting stance when faced with an argument, a teenager who had the balls to get married just because he felt like it.  
  
If there really is a New York Zayn, Harry deserves to experience it.  
  
“I mean, you were already packed,” Zayn shrugs with a smile. “Might as well move to the city.”  
  
“We can get a place, yeah? You and me?”  
  
Zayn reaches for Harry to tug on a stray curl, a little too hard, and nods. Harry was the first to present Zayn with a true _you and me,_ so it seems fitting. It also wouldn’t be right to live in the same room he shared with Louis.  
  
Harry’s eyes widen around then, when Zayn moves up to kiss him deeper. His fingers tighten around Harry’s face as he throws a leg fully across his thighs, tongue snaking out to taste Harry’s all over again. Harry’s fingers tighten just as much, around Zayn’s thin waist, to push him away.  
  
“Babe, are we… tonight?” Harry smiles against Zayn’s cheek. “I thought we’d just – ”  
  
“I want you to fuck me. It’s been so long, babe.”  
  
“Fuck,” Harry says on a pained exhale, as Zayn reaches to grip both of them in his hand. Zayn can admit he thought this night would just be one of tasting, to get back into it slowly, but they’ve waited long enough. If there’s a night to go all the way, it’s this one. If they’ve wasted time and spent their lives learning how to be better people, Zayn wants it to last as long as he can.  
  
He tugs at them both, every so often bringing his hand up to lick his palm, to get them hard at the same time. Zayn knows they’re both definitely a little sensitive at this point, but he powers through. He doesn’t know why it feels so important to keep going, but it is.  
  
Poor Harry screws his entire face up in concentration, his hands back up to the headboard again, knuckles white. Zayn speeds up his hand, jerks them together roughly, spitting down onto their slits.  
  
Harry groans, his cock red and hard bumping against Zayn’s.  
  
“Want you,” Zayn whispers, his voice rough.  
  
“I want _you,_ ” Harry nods, eyes on Zayn’s blurred hand flying up and down their lengths.  
  
Zayn stills his hand and reaches for the nightstand, to the little box tucked towards the back where they kept their condoms and lube. And sure enough, it’s stocked and ready. Zayn grins at Harry, wiggles his eyebrows, and throws himself to Harry’s side.  
  
Harry catches on, and excitedly turns on his side, to crowd up behind Zayn. He kisses Zayn’s neck, right below his hairline, and exhales.  
  
Zayn hands a condom over his shoulder and clears his throat. Harry laughs and groans, right as Zayn presses his ass back to rub against Harry’s cock. It’s a cruel tease, but Zayn holds onto it. It hasn’t been this fun to get off in ages.  
  
Harry doesn’t waste time opening Zayn up, both of them figuring their escapade in the kitchen was enough. It’s just on the right side of too much, as Zayn claws at the back of Harry’s hand on his chest. Harry breeches Zayn’s entrance, past the rings of muscle in no time at all, and surges up. Zayn’s eyelids slide closed as he grunts into it, clenching around Harry with everything he has. He hasn’t been fucked in ages, hasn’t felt the burn in years, not since the guy he used to fuck around with senior year. And he wasn’t anywhere as big as Harry, some idiot from Michigan who thought Zayn was “better than a girl,” something Harry would never dream of saying.  
  
Harry rocks them as they lay on their sides, rolls his hips to knock all thought of that Michigan guy out of Zayn’s head. He fucks him like that, slow and sweet, until Zayn’s almost crying from it. It’s like every nerve ending awakens, his blood pumping faster, his heart working like it’s a marathon. Zayn’s fucked for Harry Styles all over again, the man who kissed Zayn in front of a judge with the best kind of kiss, where it’s mostly smiling mouth to mouth.  
  
“S’it good?” Harry huffs into Zayn’s ear, now the one to get them going, the one with necessary words.  
  
“Fuck, babe,” Zayn pushes back at him. “Haven’t… in forever, I fucking… haven’t in so long.”  
  
“Just me, yeah? You like it when it’s me, don’t you.”  
  
Harry brings his hand back to where their bodies meet, to spread Zayn open, to feel with his fingertips where he’s splitting Zayn apart. Zayn hisses, his toes curling, at the new sensation. Harry even slips his index finger in alongside his cock, both of them reacting like a bomb’s gone off.  
  
Harry lets his finger slide in a few times, until Zayn’s shaking with need to come. Harry knows, he always knows, so he removes his finger to instead bring his hand around to Zayn’s stomach. He presses in, hard, like he’s trying to physically feel his cock bumping into his palm from the inside. Zayn groans louder than ever at that, pushing back at Harry now faster, using his extended knee to get momentum.  
  
“Like that?” Harry speaks again into Zayn’s ear, the filthy bastard. “Just me in your ass, right? You only like it when it’s me, don’t you.”  
  
Zayn can’t speak, but he nods harshly, knocking Harry in the face a few times. Harry just chuckles and kisses behind his ear. Zayn grips the pillow with one weak hand, tensing. It’s only good with Harry, it’ll only ever _be_ Harry.  
  
‘Til death.  
  
“C’mon, babe. Want you to come again,” Harry snaps his hips.  
  
They chase it together, a back and forth rocking until Zayn’s entire body tenses further. He slaps at Harry’s hand on his belly, to hurry up, to help him. Harry, sharp as a tack, fumbles for Zayn’s cock before jerking him hard and fast. It’s frantic, hot, crazed, and then Zayn’s coming.  
  
He groans Harry’s name as he shoots into Harry’s hand, a few weak strings of come dripping onto the sheets. Zayn must’ve pulled Harry right into him even further, because Harry whines, all high and breathy, as he shoots into the condom.  
  
Zayn’s eyes slide shut almost immediately, so he sincerely hopes as Harry’s breathing levels that he pulls out to clean up.  
  
He’s asleep not even two minutes later.

  
  
_________

  
Zayn wakes up hours later when he needs to reposition himself. He fell asleep on his side immediately after they had sex and didn’t move until the morning, when his arm prickled from the angle. So Zayn huffs a breath as he collapses onto his back, only to realize that Harry’s awake and staring at him.  
  
“Why aren’t you asleep?” Zayn rubs his eyes, turning onto his other side so they’re face to face.  
  
“Why aren’t you?” Harry smiles, his voice low and rough from misuse.  
  
“I think my arm may need to be amputated.”  
  
“That’s a shame. All that nice artwork going to waste.”  
  
“I have the other arm,” Zayn reasons, his eyes slipping closed again.  
  
They doze for a while longer, until Zayn can distinctly hear the birds waking up outside their open windows. It’s close to sunrise, Zayn can tell by the color of the room, and he can’t believe he’s conscious. He blinks a few times to focus on Harry’s face, to see Harry still staring at him like before.  
  
“What?” he bites his lip.  
  
“Just looking,” Harry runs a finger down Zayn’s nose. “Haven’t seen you sleeping in forever, so.”  
  
Zayn used to wake up to Harry’s eyes on him all the time. And even when he didn’t, he’d have a Post-It on his face, to remind him that Harry was there. Sometimes Zayn would bound down the stairs of his house, ready to run to Harry’s in nothing but gym shorts, to see Harry already there making breakfast with his mom or helping Safaa with homework.  
  
It’s crazy how Zayn knew even then that Harry would be the person he’d end up with. Zayn reaches a finger up to Harry’s nose then, mentally kicking himself for all the time they spent being idiots.  
  
They probably look like idiots right then and there, index fingers on each other’s noses, which Harry revels in. He actually pinches Zayn’s nose and makes a Muppet honking sound, until Zayn shakes his hand away with a laugh.  
  
“We need to wear our rings,” Harry smiles when they settle again.  
  
“You still have yours?”  
  
“Yes,” Harry scowls. “Of course I do. Do you _not_ have yours?”  
  
“Of course I have my ring,” Zayn huffs, shutting his eyes. “I wore it for a month after I left, probably. Couldn’t take it off. Then it was around my neck on a chain. But then that felt too pathetic and sad, so I put it in my sock drawer.”  
  
Zayn doesn’t hear Harry, doesn’t feel Harry’s nails on his stomach anymore, so he opens his eyes.  
  
“Mine’s in my sock drawer too,” Harry smiles. “And I wore it around my neck for ages.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“Good,” Harry nods.  
  
They listen to the birds for a few more minutes, Zayn pretty positive that they’ll sleep until noon. He wonders if Doniya told their parents about his impromptu trip back home only a month after his last visit. It dawns on him that if she did, and he never came home, they all know exactly what’s going on. Zayn almost groans. Even as a full-grown man, who spent months shacked up with a guy he married, he still feels nervous over his parents knowing he’s most definitely not a virgin.  
  
Harry brings his wet lips to Zayn’s neck, latching like some incubus sent from hell, and Zayn sighs. He feels the prickling of exhaustion behind his eyelids.  
  
Maybe he started to slip under again. But then he feels Harry’s slick mouth against his jaw, coming up to his lips, slow as anything.  
  
“Want to fuck you again,” Harry whispers, his hand traveling south towards Zayn’s dick.  
  
“Jesus, again?” Zayn can’t help but laugh. Even in the face of exhaustion and overexertion, it’s probably the best idea Harry’s ever had. If either of them are capable of getting it up for a third time, now’s the time to try.  
  
Harry nods and kisses him again, urging him on, to do that thing Zayn so often loved when they were younger: to be in control, powerful and sturdy, the boy with the filthy mouth that sends Harry over every edge there is.  
  
Zayn gets on top of him then, shoving Harry’s arms to the headboard. He uses his eyes to send the message, which Harry gleefully receives. He grips the bar and blows out a breath, to ready himself.  
  
“You’re gonna come again, aren’t you,” Zayn nods, reaching for the lube near the end of the bed. “Gonna fuck me?”  
  
Harry nods, like he’s in a classroom, face set.  
  
Zayn has a vision of the time he ate Harry out with such gusto and force, Harry cried. He really, truly cried it was so good. He said afterwards that it was too much sensation, like every sense he had suddenly shorted out, his brain shut off entirely. Zayn listened, enraptured, as Harry described what it felt like, that pure and utter pleasure that’s almost painful. It’s a level of trust most people aren’t lucky enough to have, to place every emotion, body part, and reliance into someone else’s hands. To be completely at their mercy.  
  
Zayn thinks about then, as he drizzles the lube onto his fingers and shoves them inside himself, that he might like that right now: to see Harry cry from it.  
  
“You gonna be good?” Zayn eggs him on, fingering himself even though he knows he doesn’t need it.  
  
“I’ll be good,” Harry nods, hair flying.  
  
“Gonna get me off again?”  
  
“I’ll try.”  
  
“Harry.”  
  
“I will, I – yeah, I’ll get you off,” Harry grips the bar tighter, legs squirming underneath Zayn’s weight.  
  
Zayn looks down and sees Harry hardening, the blood rushing to his cock like it always does when Zayn gets a dirty mouth.  
  
“And you’re gonna come, too,” Zayn nods, ripping open a condom with his teeth. “I’m gonna make you feel so good.”  
  
Harry’s feet curl, his legs widen, as Zayn slides the rubber on him. It must be too much, it’s not slick enough, and it’s a lot. Harry’s head bobs up and down, ready for Zayn to do whatever he wants. Zayn’s afraid for Harry’s wrists, the amount of pressure he applies as he holds on.  
  
Zayn sinks down onto him, head thrown back, hands braced on Harry’s chest. He’s stretched enough, he’s okay with the size, it’s fine… and yet his entire body tenses. Harry’s no better beneath him, still as a stone, eyes slammed shut.  
  
It’s just so sensitive, his skin on fire from the rush of blood. His rim feels used and wet, and it’s all because of Harry. His Harry. Harry opens his eyes and must know, because he stares with a new found determination and nods. Zayn can do it, he decides, so he pushes through. He lifts himself up, and then sinks back down roughly. Zayn, who has seen Harry get hit in the nuts with a baseball and fall over a fence ass backwards and been on the receiving end of a punch to the kidney, definitely knows this look on Harry’s face.  
  
Harry tries to nod again, as Zayn speeds up to truly fuck himself down on Harry’s cock, but then it turns into a shake of the head. Over and over, the faster Zayn goes.  
  
“Is it good?” Zayn fucks down again, thumbs rubbing across Harry’s nipples.  
  
“Keep going,” Harry says through gritted teeth.  
  
“Make me come, babe,” Zayn smiles, swivels his hips, feels Harry so fucking deep, it’s like Harry’s cock is bumping against his ribcage.  
  
Harry speeds up then. His brow furrows at the smile on Zayn’s face, the playful expression, and slams up into him. It’s taxing, the way he pushes up into Zayn, ass coming up off the bed. It’s like he’s trying to bounce Zayn straight towards the ceiling, tears springing to his eyes, it’s so good.  
  
“Fuck,” Zayn sits straight up then, his knees starting to ache. “Look at me, Harry.”  
  
Harry grips the bar between his hands, breathes through it, and pulls his face back down to stare at Zayn bouncing on top of him.  
  
“You first.”  
  
“No, you,” Harry shakes his head, still so determined.  
  
Zayn bends back at the waist, to bring his hands behind him, to hold onto Harry’s knees. The angle sends a shiver down Zayn’s spine, Harry’s cock rubbing right against his prostate. “Mother… fucker.”  
  
“Yeah, babe,” Harry licks his dry lips. “Look at you. You look so good.”  
  
Harry plants his feet into the mattress once more and pistons his hips up, as Zayn rides him faster. They can’t speak anymore, they’re just a mess of boy and sweat and guttural sounds. It’s animalistic and rough, both of them on the edge. Zayn can’t help but stare at Harry’s red face, the hair plastered to his forehead, the steady stream of tears starting to fall. If he could lean forward to wipe them away, he would. But he can’t, he can’t think or move from the position he’s in, the feeling leaving his legs almost entirely.  
  
Zayn’s orgasm rips out of him almost against his will, his entire body propelling forward again towards Harry’s chest. It consists of a single weak string of almost-clear come, and Zayn can’t stop staring at it on Harry’s pelvis.  
  
He’s about to tell Harry he can’t do it, can’t let Harry ride it out, he’s about to burst from it if he doesn’t have Harry pull out. But then Harry’s crazed eyes, his wet face and red lips, all tilt towards the ceiling and he comes without breathing.  
  
Zayn has to hold a hand to Harry’s chest, to make sure he hasn’t had a heart attack. Harry shakes through it, he truly tremors like he’s in an earthquake, his entire body crimson red from exertion. Zayn clamors off him, tries to be gentle about it, to see if Harry’s okay. He grabs for the condom with shaking fingers, to clean Harry up. But Zayn realizes, as Harry shakes a few more times, trying to blink and focus on something, that he came completely dry. It’s, in a word, quite astonishing.  
  
“Babe, you okay?” Zayn runs a hand across Harry’s forehead, both of them panting. “You good?”  
  
“I’m okay,” Harry nods, face still crazed like he’s seen a ghost. “I’m good.”  
  
Zayn brings Harry’s numb and shaking hands from above his head, turns his body so Harry can curl into him entirely. He shushes him like he used to after especially scary movies, brushes Harry’s hair, kisses his damp eyelids.  
  
“You’re okay,” Zayn nods. “That was fucking unreal, babe.”  
  
“Shit,” Harry can’t help but smile, his eyes falling shut.  
  
They both start to drift, exhausted and spent. Zayn can feel himself slipping into sleep again, almost positive that they won’t leave this bed until the next morning’s sunrise. It feels oddly fitting, to come back together in such a way, like a riptide too out of control. They used to light up any room they were in together, and now that they’re back in the only bed they’ve ever shared as married men, Zayn’s glad it’s like this: positively and absolutely clinging to each other after the storm they made.  
  
Zayn pulls Harry closer, runs his fingers down his back, to lull him to sleep. He smiles and sends up a silent thank you to whoever up there decided they get a second chance.  
  
But then Zayn can’t help himself. Harry makes Zayn crazy, but he also makes him stupid and silly, the type of man who thinks fucking three times in one night is not only feasible, but fun.  
  
“Babe… do you wanna rest a little, and then maybe go again?” Zayn whispers with a massive grin into Harry’s hair, waiting for the smack sure to come.  
  
It’s a weak one, Harry’s shaking hand knocking against Zayn’s hip, but it’s still funny. They both laugh until they fall asleep.

  
  
_________

  
Yaser’s the one to turn up the radio. It’s not all too surprising, given his ever-lasting love for all things Michael Jackson. The only reason any of his kids have any music knowledge at all, is because he insisted on listening to _Off the Wall_ and _Thriller_ on any family road trip.  
  
He can’t help it, as he dances next to his wife at the stove, the baseline of “Beat It” surrounding them. There’s just something about having all of his children under the same roof, something that so rarely happens. Even more rare, is having Zayn and Harry under the same roof, as well. But there they are at the table, peeling apples for Trisha. They keep stealing looks at each other. Yaser’s distinctly reminded of those last few weeks of just friendship, when Anne would call to ask Harry to come home, and spend ten minutes laughing with Yaser about their inevitable relationship. It’s nice to see them like this again, even if it’s taken years.  
  
Safaa bounces into the kitchen around then, finally emerging from her room for breakfast. She had just been texting her newest boyfriend Kyle, the one no one knows about yet. She knows they’d all have a fit and insist on him coming to the house, which is just too embarrassing. Even Harry would want to meet him, and would probably nonchalantly invite Kyle to fish on his boat, just to pepper him with gross questions about not getting “handsy” with her.  
  
It’s pretty ridiculous for Zayn or Harry to chastise her for her relationship choices, given their history. Safaa almost laughs at them now, as she pours orange juice, the way they look like they’re kids again. She remembers being tiny and seeing Harry sneaking down the stairs before their parents woke up. It’s something Safaa would never dare to do, the hypocrites. But still, she eyes them lovingly, her idiot brothers who finally got their shit together. Maybe she’ll buy some Post-Its for Kyle, now that she thinks about it.  
  
Waliyha’s ready to move out, she swears it. She stomps into the kitchen ready to yell at both of her sisters for stealing her flat iron _again_ , when she halts in her tracks. Their dad is busy singing, sliding across the floor in his socks to make them laugh, which it does. Waliyha can’t be angry when Yaser gets like this, none of them can, their strong, tough dad suddenly using a pair of tongs as a microphone.  
  
She also can’t be angry, not when Safaa and Doniya both settle at the table with smiles on their faces, as Harry tosses pieces of apple into their hair. Zayn tries to stop him, barely, by slapping at his arms to grab his wrists. Harry eventually tosses his head back with a laugh, his wild hair flying around his face, before he leans in and kisses Zayn. They do that kiss they used to always do, where it’s mostly just smiling mouth to mouth. Everyone pretends not to notice, except they all do. It warms something in the kitchen, even as the pans spit grease from the eggs and turkey bacon.  
  
Doniya catches Waliyha’s eye and winks, in equal measure saying sorry for using her flat iron and giving a final wordless gesture at their brothers finally being happy. Harry’s never not belonged, not after all the years he spent at their dinner table, first as Zayn’s stupid friend from by the lake, then as his boyfriend, husband, and ex. More than anyone else, the two girls share a kinship as the sounding board for Harry, whenever he got especially depressed over losing Zayn. But now, Doniya reaches a hand under the table to grip Harry’s knee, so they can share a wink as well.  
  
Harry blushes slightly, glancing at Zayn to see if he’s noticed. But Zayn has pulled Safaa closer to give her a disgusting kiss on the cheek, a wet raspberry like they used to do to her as a baby. So he doesn’t notice the way Harry elbows Doniya, giving his own thank you now.  
  
Trisha sees all of it. Because mothers rarely miss these types of moments, the winks and smiles and kisses exchanged between family members. If her kids knew she saw everything, on any given second of any given day, they’d never trust her again. But as it is, she leans against the counter and watches.  
  
All is right with the world, now that Zayn’s home. Doniya and Waliyha, who will most likely be moving out soon, wink. Safaa, her baby set to graduate soon, tries to hide her phone in her pocket, after checking it with a bite to her lip, again. Zayn kisses her, loud and gross, to make her yell at him. Harry, never one to keep it in, actually reaches his arms up to stretch, a stupid grin on his face. He even closes his eyes for a few seconds, to savor the morning full of noise and music, and Trisha sees that, too.  
  
Yaser ends up grabbing her hand to kiss her fingers.

 

  
_________


	2. The Epilogue

 

\--

 

“Babe, they’re here!” Harry yells from the entryway, boots scuffing the wood slightly.  
  
Zayn checks his hair in the bathroom mirror one last time, laying the pieces near his forehead just so, and then he’s rushing through the bedroom. Ever the multi-tasker these days, as he jogs towards Harry, he shifts the plant near the fireplace, turns up the stereo, tucks in his shirt.  
  
He meets Harry at the door, a hand on his back, so they can pull it open together. Waliyha’s face is the first one they see, in a huff, shoving her purse into Harry’s waiting arms.  
  
“I am going to pee my pants,” she cries, stepping around Zayn without even a kiss on the cheek. “I swear this kid thinks my bladder is a trampoline.”  
  
Everyone laughs as she waddles down the hallway as fast as she can, Parker behind her if she needs anything. He’s so attentive with his pregnant girlfriend, it’s achingly sweet. Next it’s Yaser and Trisha coming through the door, carrying about eight different dishes wrapped in foil. They all start chattering about the weather, how sticky the city is this time of year, how poor Waliyha needs a chair immediately once she’s out of the bathroom.  
  
Gemma and Anne rush out of the kitchen, having arrived twenty minutes before, and soon both families are loudly catching up. Harry shakes hands with Kyle, Safaa’s objectively nice and sane boyfriend, as Zayn grabs for purses and bottles of wine to put away.  
  
It’s not until Steph and Antonia arrive that it gets even more chaotic. Antonia, just as pregnant as Waliyha by now, insists on sitting with her to mourn their bodies together. Steph grabs Harry to talk about the next phase of marketing roll out for the new bakery, right as Zayn has to take a call from Vince about his art for the new issue. He’ll be traveling back to Hammond with Harry in a few weeks, to spend the rest of the summer in the lake house Anne still hasn’t sold, the one she'll eventually sell to them, of course. He has to put a hand up so Liam get let him take the call, as Sophia rests her chin on his shoulder.  
  
All in all, their Chelsea apartment is fit to burst. Luckily Bruce, the old man that he is now, carries on with his nap under the dining table. Zayn’s glad to see everyone’s shoes are drool free.  
  
It’s Doniya who eventually calls for silence. She moves through the mess of laughing bodies towards the fireplace, to stand up in front of them. There comes a wolf whistle from somewhere in the back, Niall the idiot, but she swats her hand out with a flustered smile and smooths her dress. Her engagement ring glints in the light, and they all distinctly hear Niall whistle a second time when she shakes her hair.  
  
“Shush,” she wrinkles her nose. “Okay, does everyone have a drink?”  
  
Harry, not one to miss a speech, tries his best to weasel his way around his sister, to plop down next to Zayn on the couch. Their heads knock together quite painfully, so Zayn smiles as he rubs the spot on Harry’s poor forehead. Harry hands Zayn a flute of champagne with a wink.  
  
“Okay, now… I had this planned somewhat,” Doniya continues. “I just wanted to say… I’m glad we are here this weekend to celebrate these two.”  
  
Harry grips Zayn’s knee with his left hand, his silver ring digging in. Zayn just smiles as the eyes in the room bounce from Doniya, to the two of them sitting close.  
  
“It’s been a few years since they finally got back together,” Doniya rolls her eyes, remembering the long road it took for them to figure it out. “But I think we can all agree, every June has a special feel to it now.”  
  
Trisha sniffs loudly and everyone laughs. She’s the first to get emotional, and soon Safaa’s sniffing alongside her.  
  
“These two got married on June 12th. They surprised us all, of course, did it completely on their own, just because they felt like it. They barreled into their own stupid graduation party with the announcement, and I think we all know how well _that_ went.”  
  
More laughter, this time with Yaser booming loudest. He yelled the most then, and he laughs the most now. Zayn elbows at Harry, both of them smiling.  
  
“And sure, there was a pretty big gap there, when they were apart. But Harry was never not part of the family, Zayn never really let him go, and now here we are,” Doniya gestures to the room at large.  
  
Zayn feels a pair of hands on his shoulders, probably from Anne or Steph, judging by the nail length. But he doesn’t dare turn away, too entranced in Doniya’s speech.  
  
“So everyone raise your glass,” Doniya says as she blinks a tear into oblivion. “To my brothers, Zayn and Harry, may their Junes always be full of joy.”  
  
Everyone cheers to that, drinking and clapping. They start to move through the apartment once more, as they mingle and eat the desserts from the bakery. Doniya falls against Niall’s chest, her delicate hand holding her champagne as he speaks into her hair with a dopey smile on his face. Yaser starts telling a story about Harry and Zayn being nothing but trouble as kids, and Zayn’s tempted to get up to listen.  
  
But instead he leans against Harry, right as Harry leans into him. Harry takes a long drink as their eyes lock, and Zayn can’t help but smile.  
  
“It’s been fun after all,” Harry says with a shrug, a small smile dancing across his face.  
  
Zayn doesn’t understand at first, the watery expression Harry can’t seem to stop. He stares at Zayn like he’s about to cry. But then Zayn remembers, the words that etched into his brain that fateful night: _Nobody finds their soul mate when they're ten. I mean, where's the fun in that, right?_  
  
Zayn smiles back at him and grabs his hand to give it a good squeeze.  
  
“It’s been so fun, babe,” Zayn shrugs to match.  
  
When they kiss, when Harry nudges Zayn’s face with his own, it’s good. It’s also good when Zayn grips Harry’s thigh, to remind him of their matching tattoos there.  
  
It was stupid, honestly. And they were definitely drunk when they got them, a few months after they officially moved to the city together. The tattoo artist thought they were idiots, the whole world would probably think so, if they ever shared the words with anyone else.  
   
But WHALE and BARNACLE are just for them, in a simple black font, right there on their inner thighs.  
  
Idiots.

 

 

 

THE END

 

 

  
  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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